JOSEPHINE, 


AND     OTHER     POEMS 


BY 


S.    TUCKER    CLARK, 


BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED    FOR    THE    AUTHOR, 

BY    GEO.    C.    RAND    &    AVERT. 

1856. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856, 

BY  S.  TUCKER  CLARK, 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


mjj    Barents, 


Who  wiped  away  the  tears  that  they  were  weeping 

Above  their  first  born's  grave, 
To  smile  on  me,  then  in  my  cradle  sleeping, 

And  bless  the  God  who  gave; 
To  them  I  dedicate  this  little  token, 

A  pledge  sincere, 
That  as  the  golden  strings  of  life  are  broken, 

And  death  draws  near, 
Their  only  son,  a  staff  to  them  shall  prove, 
And  bear  them  gently  in  the  arms  of  love. 


PREFACE. 


WITH  many  misgivings,  I  present  this  offering  to  those, 
who,  by  chance,  may  be  so  fond  of  reading,  as  to  read  every 
book  that  is  published. 

Those  even  who  examine  may  disapprove ;  and  I  may, 
when  I  become  a  man,  blush  that  I  ever  exposed  my  boyish 
attempts  at  verse-making ;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  if  it  is  true 
that  "  a  great  book  is  a  great  evil,"  my  offence  is  but  trifling. 

Happy  Alley,  July  8,  1856.  S.  T.  C. 


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JOSEPHINE: 


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A     HISTORICAL    POEM. 


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PROEM. 


ANSWER,  oh,  heartless  pretender, 
Deeming  fair  woman  can  render 

Only  a  service  most  menial! 
Where  is  the  loving  and  caring, 
Watching  and  praying,  while  sharing 

Even  thy  life  course  so  varying? 


10  POEMS. 

Ushered  in  infantile  weakness, 
Into  a  world  where  true  meekness, 

Virtue  and  candor  seem  obsolete  — 
Man  finds  a  home  and  a  safe  rest, 
Pillows  his  head  on  a  pure  breast, 

Tenderly  bearing  his  helplessness. 

Leaving  the  world,  how  his  death  throes, 
Bodily  anguish  and  soul  woes 

Yield  to  the  breath  of  true  sympathy. 
Soothing  the  pain  throbs  so  gently, 
Pointing  to  heaven  all  intently, 

Woman,  thy  mission  angelic  is. 

Of  such  a  being  I  write  now: 

Bring  me  fresh  leaves  and  a  lithe   bough 

Torn  from  the  evergreen  laurel  tree; 
Let  them  be  dipped  in  the  fountain 
Flowing  from  Helicon  mountain, 

That  I  may  crown  her  loved  memory; 


PROEM.  11 

Crown,  with  a  garland  befitting 
One,  who  was  never  forgetting 

Kindness  to  all;  but  who  womanly 
Battled  for  right;  and  was  sharing 
Sorrow  each  loved  one  was  bearing, 

Bearing  for  her  or  her  country's  sake. 


12 


'<       *-,//£/, 


CHAPTER      I 


FIRST   LOVE,    PREDICTION;   DISAPPOINTMENT. 


ISLE  in  the  midst  of  the  sea  foam, 
Martinique,  earliest,  best  home, 

Of  our  fair  heroine  Josephine. 
Tropical  flowers  were  around  her, 
Love  here  with  golden  chains  bound  her, 

Bound  to  a  brave  and  a  noble  one. 


FIRST   LOVE,    PREDICTION,    DISAPPOINTMENT.    13 

Far  from  the  home  of  his  childhood 
William  departs;  and  the  wild  wood 

Josephine  seeks  in  her  loneliness. 
Birds,  in  the  branches  above  her, 
Bring  back  the  words  of  her  lover, 

Words  that  like  music  sweet  ravish  her. 

Josephine  meets  with  the  dreamer 
Skillful  in  magic;  and  tremor 

Seizes  the  sibyl  Euphemia; 
Wildly  she  stares ;  then  declaring 
Destiny  changeful,  preparing, 

Changeful  preparing  for  Josephine, 

Tells  her  a  bride  she  beholds  her; 
And  as  her  mantle  enfolds  her, 

So  will  the  clouds  of  adversity; 
Widow  bereft,  and  in  dark  weeds, 
Mourning  in  sorrow  o'er  crushed  reeds, 

And  o'er  the  mem'ry  of  absent  ones. 


POEMS. 

Skillful  in  lore  of  past  ages, 
Different  fortune  presages; 

Now,  as  an  empress  sees  Josephine ; 
Then  from  the  friends  that  should  love  her, 
When  the  thick  clouds  o'er  her  hover, 

Forced  far  away  from  them,  heartlessly. 

Closely  the  Creole  girl  listened, 
Mirthful  her  thoughtful  eye  glistened, 

Blushing  to  hear  such  a  fortune  told; 
Laughed  at  the  sibyl's  disclosure, 
Looked  on  her  life  with  composure, 

Trusted,  believed  not  the  prophetess. 

Still,  when  the  curtain  of  night  fell, 
Fearful  that  all  would  not  end  well, 

Josephine  thought  the  prediction  o'er. 
Who  of  us  mortals  would  fain  know 
Every  change,  as  the  waves  flow, 

Bearing  us  on  to  eternity  ? 


FIRST   LOVE,   PREDICTION,    DISAPPOINTMENT.    15 

Spirits,  like  witches  of  Bndor, 
Haply,  to  mortals  may  render 

Pages  of  future  fate  legible ; 
But,  since  our  fortune  is  hidden, 
Why  should  its  spectre  be  bidden 

Up  from  the  shades  of  futurity  ? 

Josephine's  hours  are  now  dreary; 
Gone  is  her  lover;  and  weary, 

Weary  she  waits  for  his  coming  home ; 
But,  as  a  looked  for  to-morrow, 
Never  that  day  came,  and  sorrow 

Woke  in  the  bosom  of  Josephine. 

/^  / 

As  the  last  notes  of  a  sweet  song      / 

Float  on  the  ear,  so  her  love,  long 
Lingered,  embalmed  in  her  memory ; 

And  when  the  ties  that  had  bound  her 

Broken  were,  floating  around  her 

Still,  was  the  dream  of  her  early  love. 


16  POEMS. 

'Round  our  first  love  is  a  charm  thrown, 
Never  again  to  the  soul  known, 

Never  in  subsequent  loving  known. 
Every  heartfelt  and  kind  word 
Brings  back  the  voice  that  was  first  heard 

Speaking  the  language  of  tenderness. 

Youth  is  a  season  of  pleasure, 
Pleasure  almost  beyond  measure, 

Bouyant  and  bright,  yet  ephemeral. 
Middle  age  comes  with  its  care  then, 
Wond'ring,  we  ask  to  know  where  then 

The  spring  of  our  lifetime  has  flown  too. 

Old  age  throws  o'er  us  its  death  chill, 
Wond'ring,  we  question  ourselves  still, 

Where  are  the  dark  locks  of  former  days  ? 
Changing  the  raven,  for  hoar  hair, 
Trembling  and  weakness  are  now,  where 

Once  was  activity,  usefulness. 


17 


CHAPTER    II. 


THE   WIFE,   THE   MOTHER,   THE    EXILE. 


JOSEPHINE,  now  in  her  full  bloom, 
Leans  on  the  arm  of  a  bridegroom; 

Lists  to  her  epithalamium. 
Beauharnais,  man  of  high  bearing, 
Worthy  the  duty  of  caring 

For  the  sweet  maiden  of  Martinique. 


18  POEMS. 

Beauharnais,  proud  of  the  flower, 
Bore  from  its  fair  western  bower 

Over  the  sea,  to  his  princely  home. 
Josephine,  now  in  a  high  sphere, 
Lived,  as  though  never  a  dark  fear 

Whispered  to  mind,  of  her  coming  fate, 

Swiftly  the  happy  hours  glided. 
Guardian  angels  that  guided 

Josephine  on  in  her  happiness, 
Smiled,  as  they  saw  that  her  offspring, 
Would  to  her  future  a  joy  bring, 

Solace,  and  joy  in  her  loneliness. 

Mother  of  Hortense  and  Eugene, 
Mother,  a  title  that  I  ween, 

Dearer  by  far  was  to  Josephine, 
Than  appellation  more  sounding; 
Mother,  the  word  is  abounding, 

Carefulness,  prayerfulness  mingle  here. 


THE   WIFE,    THE   MOTHER,    THE    EXILE.          19 

Vain  are  our  dreams  of  the  present; 
Though  at  the  dawn  it  is  pleasant, 

Balmy  air,  sunshine  and  zephyr  may, 
Ere  the  god  Phoebus  has  driven 
The  day  car  of  gold,  to  mid  heaven, 

Change,  for  the  lightning  and  hurricane. 

So,  though  the  morn  may  betoken 
Gladness,  ere  noon  may  be  broken 

Every  string  of  the  human  heart; 
Man  be  borne  over  the  dark  tide, 
Where  the  pale  spirits  and  ghosts  bide, 

Into  the  land  of  the  wonderful. 

Josephine's  life,  once  unclouded, 
Now  with  a  dark  veil  is  shrouded, 

That  veil  was  woven  by  jealousy. 
He  who  had  promised  to  guide  her, 
Guard  her  whate'er  should  betide  her, 

Coldly  refuses  to  shelter  her. 


20 


POEMS. 


Jealousy,  fury  with  baned  tongue, 
Many  a  soul  hath  thy  fangs  stung. 

Daughter  of  darkness  and  misery, 
Worse  than  the  Gorgon  Medusa, 
Thou  of  the  change  art  producer, 

Change,  that  to  stone  turns  the  spirit  part. 

Sent  out  as  Hagar  of  old  was ; 
Earth  then  to  Josephine  cold  was, 

All  save  the  home-land,  fair  Martinique; 
There  where  the  waters  and  winds  play, 
Loved  she  to  linger  the  long  day, 

Linger,  and  think  of  her  hopelessness. 

There  was  her  refuge;  and  Hortense 
Seemed  to  breathe  o'er  her  an  incense, 

Soothing  the  pain  of  her  solitude. 
Eugene,  the  filial  and  kindly, 
Still  was  with  him,  who  had  blindly, 

Blindly,  an  exile  made  Josephine. 


THE  WIPE,  THE  MOTHER,  THE  EXILE.    21 

What  is  a  promise  of  love  worth 
Where  there  is  naught  but  a  cold  dearth, 

Famine  in  soul,  of  true  principle. 
As  the  shed  tears  of  a  noon  shower, 
Cheering  awhile  the  fair  field  flower, 

Leaving  it  then  to  the  summer's  heat. 

Ere  night  comes  on,  with  its  soft  dew, 
Blighted  it  stands  where  it  once  grew, 

Emblem  of  human  mortality. 
So  fades  the  love  of  the  many; 

Is  it  a  strange  thing  if  any 

\ 
Doubt  the  existence  of  constancy? 

Woe !  for  the  heart  that's  neglected ; 
Crushed;   let  it  bow  down  dejected; 

Covered  with  sackcloth  and  ashes  be. 
Bitter  herbs  seem  far  more  loathing, 
After  a  sweet  draught;   and  loving 

Maketh  neglect  seem  the  bitterer. 


22 


CHAPTER      III. 


THE   REUNITED. 


As  on  the  dark  cloud  the  sun's  glow 
Paints,  in  bright  colors,  the  rainbow, 

Telling  the  storm  has  passed  over  us ; 
So  doth  a  message  or  love  lay 
Bring  to  the  heart  a  fresh  hope  ray, 

Sketching  to  mind  scenes  of  happiness. 


THE    REUNITED.  23 

It  was  no  want  of  affection, 
Desert  of  soul;   but  subjection 

To  the  invasion  of  jealousy, 
That  had  made  Beauharnais  coldly 
Send  her  away,  whom  he  boldly 

Now  will  implore  to  be  reconciled. 

Beauharnais  calls  o'er  the  sea  wave, 
Calls  to  the  island  that  first  gave, 

Gave  him  the  beautiful  Josephine; 
Asking  the  daughter  and  mother, 
Back  to  the  husband  and  brother, 

Back  to  their  home,  in  the  eastern  land. 

Joyful,  believing  each  loved  word, 
Homeward  she  hies,  as  a  glad  bird 

Flies  to  its  nest  and  its  waiting  brood. 
Glad,  Alexander  receives  her, 
Sad,  when  he  thinks  that  it  grieves  her, 

Grieves  her  to  think  how  unkind  he  was. 


24 


POEMS. 


Josephine,  being  united 
With  Alexander,  who  slighted 

Once  both  her  love  and  companionship, 
Feels,  when  resuming  her  station, 
Joy,  in  forgiving  vexation, 

Anger  and  hatred  and  jealousy. 

Happy,  twice  happy  the  home  band 
Where  heart  is  joined  with  the  right  hand, 

Here  on  the  altar  Hymenial, 
Cupid,  with  torch,  bids  a  flame  burn 
That  to  cold  ashes  will  ne'er  turn, 

Though    it   may   sometimes    like    waning 
seem. 

Love  that  endures  not  forever, 
Merits  no  naming,  for  never 

Was  such  a  passion  of  heaven  born. 
When  the  fair  Daphne  of  old  fled, 
Fled  from  Apollo,  whose  heart  bled 

Pierced  by  the  archer  with  golden  dart: 


THE   REUNITED.  25 

When  as  a  tree  lie  beheld  her, 
Not  from  his  love  he  repelled  her, 

But  the  god  wept,  while  embracing  her; 
'Neath  the  bark,  felt  the  flesh  quiver, 
Cursed  her  sire,  god  of  the  river, 

Peneus,  whose  power  had  transformed  her. 

Called  the  tree  wife ;  and  a  green  branch 
Bound  to  his  lyre,  that  would  soon  launch 

Out  on  the  breeze  a  sad  melody. 
Singing  of  Daphne  the  fairest, 
Fairest  of  mortals,  and  rarest 

Love  of  the  famed  son  of  Jupiter. 

Daphne  was  loved  by  Apollo ; 

Though  she  loved  not,  he  would  follow 

Wooing  the  maid  unrelentingly; 
Loved  her  when  changed  to  a  bay  tree; 
Surely,  then,  love  must  for  aye  be 

Lasting,  when  truly  reciprocal. 


26 


POEMS. 


So  reads  the  myth  of  the  heathen  ; 

If  thus  they  thought,  shall  not  we  then 

Place  upon  love  as  high  estimate  ? 
Judge,  then,  whatever  the  change  be, 
Love  once  implanted  will  still  be, 

Still  of  the  heart  be  inhabitant. 

But  oh,  how  little  such  love  burns, 
How  for  that  blest  day  my  soul  yearns, 

Man  to  be  free  from  love's  counterfeit. 
War  and  all  tumult  shall  then  cease, 
Earth  be  a  garden  of  sweet  peace, 

On  the  bright  morn  of  millennium. 


27 


CHAPTER     IV. 


THE   REVOLUTION. 


As  the  tide's  ebbing  and  flowing, 
So  is  the  coming  and  going, 

Rising  and  falling  of  potentates. 
Thrones  and  dominions  have  perished, 
Only  their  names  have  been  cherished, 

Saved  from  the  waves  of  oblivion. 


28  POEMS. 


Nations,  by  civil  commotion, 
Tost  like  the  ships  of  the  ocean, 

When  the  rude  winds  through  the  cordage 

howl, 

Outlive  the  storm,  if  a  bold  hand 
Graspeth  the  helm,  and  the  whole  band 

Prove  to  the  ship  of  state,  vigilant. 

But,  if  the  helmsman,  affrighted, 
When  in  the  thick  storm  benighted, 

Yields  to  the  sea  god  the  shattered  bark; 
Or,  if  like  Trojan  Menoetes, 
Timid,  in  even  the  safe  seas, 

Let  him  be  cast  to  the  gaping  waves. 

France,  in  the  midst  of  corruption, 
Civil  and  moral  destruction, 

Cries  for  redress  from  her   slavery; 
Then  is  her  mourning  and  sadness 
Changed  to  contention  and  madness, 

Shedding  the  blood  of  nobility. 


THE   REVOLUTION.  29 

Carnage  with  riot  is  wedded  j 
Monarch  and  courtier  beheaded: 

Blood  through  the  streets  like  a  river  flows. 
Wounded  and  bleeding  and  dying, 
With  the  dead  bodies  are  lying 

Where  they  were  left  by  their  murderers. 

Like  wild  beasts,  goaded  to  raging, 
Rave  the  French  people,  assuaging, 

In  their  mad  strife  after  liberty, 
Wrongs  of  tyrannic  oppression, 
Shedding  for  every  transgression, 

Innocent  blood,  with  the  criminal. 

Jacobin  hurls  the  Girondist 

Swift  to  his  death;  and  the  fondest, 

Dearest  of  friends  are  now  enemies. 
Sparing  not  childhood,  or  grey  hair, 
Grandson  and  grandsire  are  slain,  where 

Regal  blood  base  earth  has  fertilized. 


30  POEMS. 

Beautiful  women  were  sharing, 
Sharing  the  death,  that  the  wearing 

Of  the  cursed  crown  might  no  longer  be 
Through  the  whole  breadth  of  the  nation. 
Was  such  a  bloody  libation 

Due  to  the  goddess  of  liberty? 

Josephine  taketh  her  share  too, 
And  of  the  woe  she  was  heir  to  — 

Who  would  not  pause  ere  he  told  it  all  ? 
But  the  Great  Father  is  near  her, 
And  though  the  test  be  severer, 

Still  will  he  strengthen  her  bearing  it, 

As  in  her  former  distresses, 
While  the  brave  heroine  presses 

Close  to  the  feet  of  Divinity. 
Josephine's  prayers  now  ascending; 
Legions  of  angels,  attending, 

Come  down  from  heaven  to  comfort  her; 


THE   REVOLUTION.  31 

And,  in  bright  phalanx,  defending, 
Guard  her  from  dangers  impending, 

Threat'ning  to  fall  and  o'erpower  her: 
Bid  her  to  still  be  brave  hearted, 
Though  from  her  dearest  ones  parted, 

Giving  her  strength  in  calamity.* 

Beauharnais,  only  a  loyal 
Lover  of  freedom  is,  royal, 

Princely  blood  flows  through  the  Viscount's 

veins ; 

Will  he  escape,  since  the  keen  eye 
Of  the  avenger  has  bid  die 

All,  save  the  utter  rebellionist  ? 

Josephine  hears  the  sad  message, 
Which  is  to  her  a  dread  presage, 

Omen  of  evil  o'ershadowing, — 
Filling  her  mind  with  vague  horror, 
Fears  she  each  day  that  the  morrow 

May  leave  her  hearthstone  companionless. 


32 


CHAPTER      Y 


THE   CONVICTION. 


When  in  the  mind  are  prevailing 
Hatred,  distrust  and  vile  railing, 

Then,  is  the  heart  no  fit  dwelling  place 
For  the  Great  Spirit  most  holy; 
And  it  is  weakness  and  folly, 

Hoping  in  God  without  charity. 


THE   CONVICTION.  33 

Charity,  first  of  the  graces; 
He  who  his  piety  bases 

On  a  foundation  less  permanent, 
Finds  all  is  naught,  though  he  speaketh 
Tongues,  and  have  faith ;   for  God  seeketh 

Such  as  in  spirit  will  worship  him. 

He  that  is  innocent  deemeth 
Every  man  good  that  so  seemeth, 

Judging  by  self,  the  world's  rectitude. 
He  that  is  base,  is  distrustful, 
Thinking  all  are  like  him  lustful, 

Judging  the  whole  by  one  profligate. 

During  the  wild  revolution, 

'Mid  the  black  scenes  of  pollution, 

When  all,  who  dared  to  own  royal  birth, 
Might  view  the  axe  which  would  slay  them, 
See  where  the  tyrants  would  lay  them, 

When  they  no  longer  were  fearing  them. 


34  POEMS. 

Beauharnais  trembled  and  feared  not, 
From  his  determined  course  veered  not, 

Knowing  his  heart  sealed  for  liberty. 
Fondly  believed  the  mad  faction, 
Viewing  his  firmness  in  action, 

Still  would  respect  his  wise  cautiousness. 

When  he  was  summoned  to  meet  them, 
Boldly,  he  hastened  to  greet  them, 

Trusting  his  all  to  integrity. 
Spoke  of  their  reckless  abusing 
Power,  that  by  prudently  using, 

Might  have  made  freedom  their  heritage, 

This,  to  the  flame  that  was  burning 
In  their  fierce  breasts,  was  like  turning 

Oil  in  the  midst  of  a  raging  fire ; 
Or,  like  an  atom  phosphoric, 
Freed  from  its  latent  caloric, 

Drop'd  in  the  midst  of  an  arsenal; 


THE    CONVICTION.  35 

Bursting  their  souls,  and  exposing 
Fiend  forms,  that  there  were  reposing; 

Scatt'ring  the  fragments  of  manliness. 
Tyrants  dared  doom  to  a  prison 
One  who  had  boldly  arisen, 

Pointing  a  safe  path  to  liberty. 

Doomed  to  a  prison-house  dreary, 
There  to  spend  days  and  nights  weary, 

As  a  forewarner  that  liberty 
Soon  would  be  his,  for  't  was  saying, 
"After  a  little  delaying, 

Thou  shalt  be  free  with  the  sleepers  cast." 

Josephine,  —  how  was  her  heart  wrung! 
When  it  was  told  by  a  strange  tongue, 

"  Sire  of  thy  darlings  a  pris'ner  is ! " 
O'ercome  with  sorrow  she  cares  not, 
Though  she  is  doomed  to  the  same  lot, 

Heedless  she  enters  her  gloomy  cell. 


36  POEMS. 

But  when  alone,  her  swift  thoughts  flew 
Back  to  the  husband,  she  well  knew 

Soon  would  be  launched  to  eternity. 
Hortense  and  Eugene,  she  missed  them, 
Torn  from  them  ere  she  had  kissed  them, 

Blessed  them,  and  bid  them  remember  her. 

Now  comes  a  message;  how  grateful! 
Once  more  is  broken  the  hateful, 

Cruel  suspense  she  was  suffering; 
Happier,  actual  sorrow, 
Than  the  dread  feeling  of  horror, 

Hung  between  hoping  and  hopelessness. 

He  is  condemned  !  —  In  the  letter 
Some  of  his  hair  —  what  could  better 

Serve  as  memento  to  Josephine  ? 
O'er  it  she  weeps,  full  well  knowing 
How  the  dark  stream  in  its  flowing, 

Will  with  its  bitter  waves  cover  her. 


37 


CHAPTER      VI. 


THE    EXECUTION. 


As  to  the  stroke  of  the  woodman 
Yields  the  brave  oak,  so  the  good  man 

Falls ;   and  as  falling  the  forest  tree 
Shaketh  the  valley  and  mountain, 
Filleth  with  ripples  the  fountain, 

So  his  death  moveth  the  multitude. 


38  POEMS. 

While  a  man  liveth,  each  failing 
Magnified  is;  the  prevailing 

Spirit  of  earth  is  base  selfishness ; 
But  let  a  mortal  in  earth  sleep, 
Enemies  over  his  grave  weep, 

Since  he  no  longer  may  rival  them. 

Many  a  sad  soul  has  waded 
Through  seas  of  trouble,  when  laded 

Deep  with  some  burden  most  onerous; 
Could  he  have  had  but  the  kind  word 
Spoken  while  here,  that  was  soon  heard 

After  he  crossed  to  the  spirit  land, 

Death  might  have  come  like  a  day-dream, 
Or,  as  sweet  sleep,  when  a  wild  stream 

Lulls  one  to  rest  with  its  merry  lay; 
And  a  hope  glimmer  have  lighted 
Him  through  the  valley  benighted, 

Over  the  flood,  to  the  resting  place. 


THE   EXECUTION.  39 

Hope,  that  the  waves  of  time  lightly 
Laving  his  mark,  would  more  brightly 

Cause  it  to  shine  in  the  future  time : 
That  when  his  form  was  to   dust  turned, 
He  might  have  what  he  so  well  earned, 

Earth,  to  remember  his  having  lived. 

This  was  thy  hope,   Alexander, 
And  while  the  rivers  meander, 

And  the  winds  shriek  through  the  hollow  air, 
Man  shall  not  cease  to  remember 
Thee,  as   the  friend  and  defender, 

Friend  both  of  freedom  and  Josephine. 

Now  comes  the  dread  execution. 
But  it  brings  this  retribution, 

"Sweet  'tis  to  die  for  one's  father-land." 
Bring  to  the  altar  the  victim; 
Nor  with  the  vile  cords  afflict  him, 

He  will  not  shrink  to  be  sacrificed. 


40 


POEMS. 


He  has  lain  down  on  his  rude  bed, 

On  the  red  block  rests  his  doomed  head, 

And  his  eyes  ope'  to  death's  mysteries. 
Views  he  before  him  the  new  land; 
And  the  bright  crown  at  the  right  hand 

Of  the  adorable  Majesty? 

Now  the  vile  axe  has  descended, 
Soul  from  the  body  ascended 

Up  to  its  first  source,  its  origin. 
Time  with  the  martyr  has  ended, 
Now  with  eternity  blended, 

As  it  was  first,  to  forever  be. 

Little  it  matters  when  life  ends 

To  the  just  man,  since  all  strife  ends 

With  the  last  breath,  in  the  distant  land, 
Home  of  the  spirits  made  perfect 
All  are  as  one,  and  the  prospect 

Looks  to  the  throne  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 


THE   EXECUTION.  41 

It  is  a  part  of  life's  glory 
Learning  of  God;   and  the  story 

Only  concludes  with  eternity; 
Let  mind  be  freed  from  this  earth  clod, 
Then  it  may  learn  who  the  great  God 

Is,  that  inhabits  immensity. 

Shall  not  the  soul  that  has  wondered, 
Gazing  on  bright  worlds  unnumbered, 

Hung  in  the  midst  of  the  firmament, 
Guided  by  those  they  adore  then 
Visit  them  all  and  explore  them, 

Learn  how  the  Father  created  them? 

Ne'er  will  be  known  to  a  mortal 

Till  he  shall  pass  through  death's  portal, 

"What  God  reserves  for  those  loving  him. 
Know  that  the  highest  conception 
Falls  far  below  the  reflection 

Even  of  one  of  his  attributes. 


42 


CHAPTER      VII. 


THE    WIDOW. 


OFTEN  the  dealings  of  Heaven 
Seem  in  deep  mystery  hidden. 

Why   should  God   take  those   we   love   the 

best? 

Takes  them  because  we  are  making 
Idols  of  flesh,  and  forsaking 

Him,  to  whom  only  is  worship  due. 


THE   WIDOW.  43 

There  are  those  who  may  in  part  know, 
Some  of  the  wild  grief  and  heart  woe 

Of  one  who  truly  a  widow  is; 
But  only  those  who  are  drinking 
Now,  or  have  drank,  can  be  thinking 

Even  of  half  the  cup's  bitterness. 

s 

Oft  have  I  watched  a  procession 
Led  by  a  hearse,  deep  depression 

Written  on  every  countenance : 
Ghastly  the  faces,  the  clothing 
Darker  than  night ;   but  with  loathing 

I  have  turned  back  from  the  mockery ; 

For  I  have  seen  there  the  pale  face 
Proud  of  its  paleness,  with  hale  grace 

Striving  to  look  most  Madonna  like ; 
Thinking  their  black  garb  becoming. 
Is  such  a  scene  not  benumbing, 

Chilling  to  hearts  of  humanity  ? 


44 


POEMS. 


I  have  seen  those  too  who  heedless, 
Heedless  of  show  and  the  needless 

Pomp  and  parade   of  the  funeral, 
Bury  their  dead  in  some  lone  grove, 
Where    the  buds  bloom,  and  at  eve  rove 

Silently  there  to  weep  over  them. 

Once,  when  the  night  winds  were  blowing, 
As,  through  a  grave-yard  was  going, 

I  heard  there  weeping  and  wailing  sad. 
Silent  with  cautious  steps  stealing 
Near  to  the  head-stone,  saw  kneeling, 

Kneeling  a  widow,  a  broken  heart, 

Weeping  her  dead,  that  for  long  time 
Sleeping  had  been.      Was  the  wrong  mine 

That  I  prayed  when  earth  should  cover  me, 
Some  one  might  weep  o'er  the  green  sod 
Rich  from  my  dust,  and  no  mean  clod 

Should  it  appear  to  those  loving  me  ? 


THE    WIDOW.  45 

Time  comes  to  Josephine  grief  fraught; 
Mourning  the  death  of  her  consort ; 

He  is  dead  —  she  still  a  prisoner. 
Could  but  the  walls  of  her  prison 
Tell  how  her  prayers  have  arisen, 

Prayers  that  from  earth  went  up  heavenward ; 

Or  could  the  floor  of  her  dark  cell 
Number  how  many  hot  tears  fell 

While  she  strove  hard  to  be  reconciled, 
They  would  not  tell  of  grief  feigning, 
But  such  a  tale,  as  is  paining 

One  to  be  even  the  listener. 

But  the  great  God  has  not  left  her, 
Though  of  her  husband  bereft  her, 

Still  he  afflicteth  not  willingly. 
In  this  sore  grief  there  are  lurking 
Mercies  benign;  all  is  working 

For  her  good  now,  and  for  evermore. 


46  POEMS. 

All  have  their  dead;  some  are  sleeping 
Where  the  mad  sea-waves  are  leaping; 

Some  where  the  yew  tree  and  willows  wave ; 
Ever  remember  to  cherish 
Dead  friends  as  living;  they  perish 

Not— all  will  meet  once  more  —  grieve  them 
not. 


47 


CHAPTER      VIII. 


THE   RELEASE. 


HEMMED  in  by  huge  blocks  of  rough  stone, 
Where,  through  the  grate  the  fresh  air  blown 

Mingles  with   damp  breath   and  loathsome 
ness; 

There  may  the  vigilant  turnkey 
Prison  the  body,  but  still  free, 

Free  as  the  sea  the  immortal  mind. 


48  POEMS. 

Ever  the  mind  is  in  motion; 
Eanging  the  islands  of  ocean; 

Seeking  the  realms  of  the  setting  sun; 
Leaving  the  scenes  of  the  present; 
Sporting  where  broods  the  gold  pheasant, 
,     Or  the  gazelle  roams  the  mountains  o'er. 

Darting  from  thence,  where  the  blue  wave 
Teems  with  the  seal,  and  white  bears  rave, 

And  the  whale  spouts,  'mong  those  crystal 

hills, 

Icebergs,  magnificent  tow'ring, 
Where  the  fierce  cold  is  o'erpow'ring 

Almost  those  northern  inhabiters. 

Chains  cannot  bind  thought ;    't  is  flying 
Swifter  than  light,  and  defying 

Limits,  from  earth  up  to  heaven  goes. 
Though  in  a  prison  the  life  breath 
Fails,  still  the  blasting  of  pale  death 

Harms  not  the  reasoning,  knowing  part. 


THE    RELEASE.  49 

Josephine's  home,  though  a  damp  cell, 
Often  was  cheered  by  the  strange  spell 

Thrown  o'er  her  mind  by  Euphemia's 
"Words,  that  years  gone  she  had  spoken: 
Josephine,  now  so  heart  broken, 

Finds  herself  trusting  the  sybil  tale. 

Why  should  she  not,  since  the  real, 
Answered  in  form,  the  ideal 

Fortune  marked  out  by  the  sorceress  ? 
She  did  take  heart  while  believing, 
Watched  for  the  wings  of  relieving 

Angels,  to  bring  to  her  liberty. 

When  she  saw  foes  were  preparing 
Also  for  her  to  be   sharing 

Fate  of  those  dear  but  unfortunate, 
Felt  not  her  courage  to  falter, 
Knowing  that  man  may   not  alter 

What  the  Almighty  predestinates. 


50  POEMS. 

When  asked   if  thoughts  of  soon  dying 
Clouded  her  mind,  her  replying 

Filled  every  ear  with  astonishment. 
Answered  she  proudly  while  smiling, 
Smiling  on  those  then  reviling, 

"Know  that  I  yet  shall  be  Queen  of  France." 

Josephine  was  not  alone  there 
Prison  bound ;   but  with  another  fair 

Woman  who  hopelessly  looked  for  death; 
'Till  one  day  through  the  rough  grating 
Saw,  at  her  prison  door  waiting, 

One  who  loved  her  as  none  other  loved. 

Quickly  she  pens  a  short  message, 
Telling  her  heart's  darkest  presage, 

Begging  that  he  would  her  dungeon  ope. 
From  the  close  grate  to  the  wide  street, 
Down  the  note  falls  at  her  love's  feet, 

Borne  to  the  earth  by  a  cabbage  stalk. 


THE  RELEASE.  "51 

That  note  was  read;   and  the  wild  fire 
Of  the  stern  will,  which  will  not  tire 

Till  the  great  end  is  accomplished, 
Burned  in  the  eye  of  the  reader; 
And  the  brave  lover  that  freed  her 

Who  was  his  all,  freed  our  Josephine. 

Now,  the  pure  fresh  air  of  heaven 
That  by  God  freely  was  given, 

Freely  is  breathed  by  a  nation  free. 
Josephine  now  with  her  dear  ones, 
Smoothly  the  current  of  time  runs ; 

Josephine  strives  to  bring  others  joy. 

Seems  as  she  moves  to  strew  flowers; 
And,  on  the  mis'rable,  showers 

That  which  she  pined  for  in  solitude, 
Love;  —  and  those  who  are  oft  near  her, 
"When  she  knows  not,  sometimes  hear  her 

Speaking  the  name  Alexander. 


52 


CHAPTER     IX. 


EUGENE. 


Into  this  world  of  temptation, 
Luring  to  foul  dissipation, 

Where  lurks  the  pit-fall  insidious; 
Man  must  go,  braving  the  contest, 
Buckling  the  shield  to  the  broad  breast, 

Warding  the  darts  of  the  evil  one. 


EUGENE.  .53 

Varied  the  thought  and  the  feeling, 
When  from  the  youth  time  is  stealing 

Studies  and  sports  of  his  boyish  days ; 
Bringing  him  cares  and  stern  duties, 
Showing  life's  thorns,  with  its  beauties, 

Bidding  him  up  and  be  doing  now. 

He  who,  in  earliest  boyhood, 

Sees  his  sire  strive  for  the  great  good 

Of  all  his  race,  a  philanthropist, 
When  he  stands  up  in  the  wide  world, 
Stands  as  a  man;   and  the  flag  furled, 

Furled  at  the  father's  death,  floats  once  more. 

Look  at  the  son  of  the  outcast, 

See  him  go  down  the  same  track,  fast 

Learning  the  lessons  of  wretchedness. 
Can  a  child  wanton  and  careless, 
Profligate,  reckless,  and  prayerless, 

Lay  the  foundation  for  usefulness  ? 


54  POEMS. 

Train  up  a  child  in  the  right  way, 
When  he  is  old  he  will  not  stray 

Far  from  the  safe  path  of  rectitude. 
It  is  the  earliest  teaching, 
That  in  the  young  heart  is  reaching 

Passions  that  easy  are  moulded  then; 

Giving  mind  bias,  preparing 
Pleasures  of  life  to  be  sharing, 

And  life's  woes  bearing  with  manliness; 
That  when  the  changes  have  ended, 
Angel,  by  angels  attended, 

May  find  a  blessed  inheritance. 

Eugene,  his  sire  Alexander, 
Patterned  in  brav'ry  and  candor, 

And  his  affections  like  Josephine's. 
Ever  was  kind  and  forgiving; 
Cherishing  always  a  living 

Principle,  based  on  integrity. 


EUGENE. 


55 


Who  would  ask  monument  higher, 
Or  to  more  glory  aspire, 

Than  to  bequeath  the  rich  legacy 
Of  a  wise  son  to  a  nation? 
Who  would  ask  longer  probation 

Here,  than  to  train  up  one's  children  well  ? 

Ever  did  Eugene  remember, 
With  a  respect  the  most  tender, 

What  his  sage  father  had  counselled  him. 
That  he  might  show  this  respecting, 
From  his  young  mates  was  selecting 

Those  who  of  all  were  most  virtuous; 

And  with  them,  being  united, 
Forming  a  knighthood,  delighted 

In  the  high  praise  of  their  patron  saint, 
Beauharnais  —  every  young  knight 
By  his  shade  swearing  to  do  right, — 

Bound  by  the  oath  of  their  filial  love. 


56 


POEMS. 


In  the  boudoir,  a  beholder 
Josephine  stood, —  her  heart  told  her 

That  on  the  son,  the  glad  influence 
Of  the  sire's  life  had  descended, 
And  all  his  virtues  were  blended 

In  the  love  pledge  he  had  left  to  her. 

Covered  with  flowers,  from  the  ceiling 
Seeming  to  smile  on  those  kneeling 

Down  by  the  altar,  a  picture  hung; 
It  was  the  form  of  that  hero, 
Who,  though  by  death  was  now  laid  low, 

Still  was  alive  in  their  memories. 

Josephine,  standing  there  weeping, 
Felt  that  his  spirit  was  reaping 

Fast  its  reward  from  all  suffering ; 
As  he  beheld  the  affection 
Of  the  son,  and  the  reflection 

Of  his  own  soul,  in  the  filial  child. 


57 


CHAPTER     X 


THE    NEW    ERA. 


As,  when  with  rage  unrelenting, 
Cruel  queen  Juno,  preventing 

Pious  ./Eneas  from  Latium, 
Called  on  king  ^Eolus,  praying 
That  he,  his  sceptre  once  swaying, 

Might  bid  the  winds  to  the  Tuscan  sea, 


58 


POEMS. 


And  the  storm-king  from  his  high  rock 
Whirling  his  spear-point,  a  huge  shock 

Gave  to  the  cave  in  the  mountain's  side, 
Cave,  where  the  fierce  winds  are  chain-bound, 
Where  they,  complaining  in  vain,  sound, 

Filling  the  mountain  with  murmerings. 

At  the  command,  as  if  rushing 
Formed  in  battalion,  all  gushing 

Out   from  their  vent  the   mad    whirlwinds 

came ; 

And  on  the  deep  salt  sea  dashing, 
Ploughed  up  great  waves,  that  were  lashing, 

Kolling  themselves  to  the  beaten  shore. 

Neptune  the  god  of  the  sea  wave, 
He  to  whom  great  Jove  alone  gave 

Empire  of  water,  and  trident  power, 
Heard  the  loud  noise  and  commotion, 
Knew  that  the  winds  with  the  ocean 

Warred;  and  high  over  the  highest  wave, 


THE    NEW   ERA.  59 

Looked  from  the  deep;  and  assuaging 
Water's  wrath;  stormy  winds  raging, 

Drove  o'er  the  smooth  wave  his  chariot; 
Giving  his  wild  steeds  the  loose  reins, 
Steeds  with  hoofs  brazen,  whose  thick  manes 

Golden,  they  bathed  in  their  ocean  course. 

So  when  the  French  revolution 
Brought  to  entire  dissolution 

Law,  in  the  wreck  of  the  powerful; 
When  the  throne  fell  and  the  altar, 
When  the  blood  shedders  did  falter, 

Seeing  France  shorn  of  her  dignity; 

And  the  French  populace  straying, 
Open  to  national  preying, 

To  the  invasion  of  enemies, 
Like  a  flock  wanting  its  keeper, 
Prey  to  the  spoils  of  the  reaper 

Wolf,  that  blood-thirsty  might  follow  them; 


60 


POEMS. 


Bonaparte  rose,  and  disorder 
Order  became;  like  a  warder 

He  at  his  post  stood  and  guarded  o'er 
France,  as  he  raised  her  from  thick  night 
Till  she  shone  bright  in  the  red  light 

Shed  by  his  Caesar-like  conquerings. 

And  her  wild  wrath  and  commotion 
Calmed,  as  did  Neptune  the  ocean; 

And  o?er  France  ruled  as  her  Emperor; 
Giving  just  law,  that  observing 
Would  be  her  welfare  preserving, 

Make  her  a  pattern  to  sister  states. 

He  raised  the  altar  forsaken, 
And,  with  a  firmness  unshaken, 

Battled  against  infidelity; 
Throwing  a  charm  o'er  the  nation, 
Forming  a  happy  mutation 

From  the  dark  scenes  of  the  Jacobins. 


THE    NEW    ERA.  61 

Health  and  prosperity  blended, 
Now  the  French  nation  attended, 

Kuled  by  Napoleon's  craftiness; 
No  other  kingdom  or  empire 
But  he  would  crush,  if  thus  higher 

He  might  his  own  and  France's  honor  raise. 

And  the  whole  nation,  its  praises, 
High  and  triumphantly  raises, 

To  the  all  powerful  Sovereign; 
And  in  each  province  or  hamlet, 
When  old  dame,  peasant  or  lord  met, 

All  spake  a  word  of  the  Conqueror. 

And  all  the  people  in  concord, 
Mingled  their  voices,  the  one  word 

Spoken  by  all  but  to  eulogize, 
Was  that  man's  name  who  had  risen, 
As  a  vicegerent  from  heaven, 

Bonaparte,  Bonaparte,  Bonaparte. 


62 


CHAPTEE     XI. 


THE   DEUTEROGAMIST. 


How  can  the  memory  blacken, 
How  can  the  holy  ties  slacken 

That  have  bound  hearts  to  each  other  once  ? 
Is  there  naught  sacred  or  binding, 
Worthy  respecting  or  minding 

In  all  the  vowing  hymenial? 


THE   DEUTEROGAMIST.  63 

Why  should  such  vows  through  one's  life  long 
Firmly  be  kept,  if  't  is  not  wrong 

That  they  should  end  with  ones  leaving  earth  ? 
If  the  soul  died,  it  might  well  be, 
That  all  the  vows  should  be  then  free, 

Free  to  be  cast  out  of  memory. 

Though  we  are  told  that  in  heaven, 
They  are  not  wed,  nor  are  given, 

Given  in  marriage ;  as  angels  live, 
Still  will  not  those  who  are  dearest 
Here  on  the  earth,  seem  the  nearest 

When  we  arrive  at  our  better  home  ? 

If  not  so,  why  cheer  the  mourner, 
Some  poor  disheartened  sojourner, 

Whom  friends  have  left  in  this  vale  of  tears  ? 
Bid  him  prepare  for  the  meeting; 
Hold  himself  ready  for  greeting 

Friendly  forms  over  deep  Jordan's  stream. 


64  POEMS. 

In  this  life  those  who  are  twice  wed, 
Oftimes  are  jealous  of  those  dead, 

Feeling  how  firm  a  first  love  must  be; 
When  in  another  world,  knowing 
Where  their  dear  ones  are  bestowing 

All  their  best  love,  will  they  happy  be? 

Or  will  none  meet  up  in  heaven, 
Only  those,  who  have  here  striven 

To  be  true,  true  to  their  early  love? 
Or,  will  all  be  so  forgiving, 
That  they  can  happy  be  living, 

Knowing  themselves  with  their  rivals  there  ? 

Or  will  there  be  no  such  scene  there, 
Meeting  of  friends,  but  will  all  wear 

One  form,  like  features  and  glory,  all 
The  same  name,  nature  and  fortune; 
How  then  did  Peter,  the  triune 

Know,  that  he  saw  on  the  mountain  top  ? 


THE   DEUTEROGAMIST.  65 

Be  as  it  may,  I  would  rather 
See  the  pale  angel,  Death,  gather 

Dearest  friends  into  his  garner,  than 
See  them  tear  off  their  dark  dresses, 
Weaving  among  their  bright  tresses 

Orange  blooms  meet  for  the  bridal  scene. 

Long  shall  remember  the  shedding 
Of  tears,  I  saw  at  a  wedding, 

Tears  that  were  shed  by  a  widow  bride; 
Methought  a  spirit  was  guiding, 
Guiding  her  thoughts  and  soft  chiding, 

Haply  't  was  not  so ;  for  who  shall  judge. 

Every  day  of  our  living 

We  may  see  those  who  are  giving, 

Giving  their  sanction  to  many  loves; 
It  may  be  right  for  the  world  to, 
Only  for  me  it  might  not  do ; 

Mine  may  be  scruples  not  grounded  well. 


66  POEMS. 

And  among  those  who  are  doing 
Thus,  we  are  forced  to  be  viewing 

Josephine ;  she  weds  again ;  it  is 
Bonaparte  now  who  is  leading 
Her  to  the  shrine,  and  succeeding 

To  the  third  love  of  our  heroine. 

But  she  paid  dear  for  the  glory, 
As  we  shall  see  when  the  story 

Fully  is  told,  and  unravelled  is 
All  the  well-knit  web  of  life  time, 
When  we  have  rung  out  our  last  chime, 

Sung  our  last  song  for  fair  Josephine. 


67 


CHAPTER     XII. 


THE    CORONATION. 


WHAT  is  a  crown  to  its  wearer? 
Only  a  sign  that  the  bearer 

Bears  with  the  jewel,  the  heavy  load 
Of  the  whole  nation's  repining; 
And  that  with  gold,  is  entwining 

Care,  like  a  serpent  form  hideous. 


68  POEMS. 

On  the  brow,  stealthy  it  presses, 
Fawning,  its  clammy  caresses 

Fill  the  crowned  head  with  a  jealous  fear. 
Crowns,  though  they  oft  fit  too  tightly, 
When  they  are  jostled  but  lightly, 

Fall,  and  where  then  is  the  regal  power? 

In  all  the  great  preparation, 
Due  to  the  grand  coronation 

Of  the  French  Empress  and  Emperor, 
Nothing  was  spared,  that  would  render 
Even  the  hardest  heart  tender 

To  the  impressions  of  loyalty. 

In  the  proud  church  of  "  Our  Lady" 
Under  a  canopy  shady, 

Was  a  throne  reared,  and  its  drapery, 
Crimson  dyed  velvet  was  flooded 
With  precious  stones,  and  bestudded 

With  bright  gold,  fresh  from  the  artisan. 


THE   CORONATION. 

Three  hundred  voices  were  raising 
Melody  sacred,  thus  praising 

Him  who  had  sent  their  deliverer; 
And  to  the  chanting,  responded 
Bands,  who  in  martial  airs  sounded 

Praise,  to  their  most  worthy  sovereign. 

When  music's  echo  had  ended, 
Bonaparte,  being  attended 

By  friends  of  rank  and  his  holiness, 
Pius  the  Seventh,  arises, 
Holding  the  Bible,  apprises 

France  that  she  now  has  an  Emperor. 

Then,  by  the  royal  pledge  swearing 
That  he  will  ever  be  sharing 

National  woe  and  prosperity, 
With  his  own  right  hand  he  raises 
The  crown  to  his  head,  while  praises 

Loud  through  the  aisles  and  arches  ring. 


70  POEMS. 

Josephine,  dressed  in  the  glory 
Of  the  fair  Houri,  that  story 

Tells  of,  in  realms  of  the  Mussulmans, 
Clad  in  a  robe  of  white  satin, 
Mantle  of  crimson  and  ermine, 

Girdle  of  pure  gold  with  diamonds  set; 

Thus  clad,  and  rev'rently  kneeling, 
Token  how  deep  she  was  feeling 

Weight  of  the  burden,  about  to  be 
Placed  on  her  head,  now  accepted 
A  crown,  from  one  she  expected 

Ever  would  own  her  his  Empress  Queen. 

And  those  who  gazed  on  her  beauty 
As  she  arose  to  her  duty, 

Doubtless,  now  deemed  her  far  happier 
Than  when  with  William  she  wandered 
Martinique's  shores,  and  there  pondered, 

In  her  young  heart,  thoughts  of  coming  life 


THE   CORONATION.  71 

"  Coming  life  ! "  how  much  of  pleasure 
Is  there  embraced  in  the  treasure 

Which  the  mind  has  in  imagining? 
Build  a  high  castle  of  thin  air, 
Though  it  should  fall,  it  will  still  wear, 

Part  of  its  fancied  magnificence. 

Happy  is  life,  by  well  doing, 
Happy  the  mind,  in  thrice  viewing 

Deeds  that  are  looked  at  with  honest  pride. 
Happy  the  future  ;  increasing 
Happy  the  present;  unceasing 

Happy  the  past  is  with  memories. 

Pleasures  we  had  in  the  last  year, 
Thought  of  to-day,  seem  far  more  dear 

Than  we  supposed  they  were,  at  the  time 
We  were  enjoying;  to-day  will, 
When  it  forever  is  gone,  still 

Brighter  grow,  as  we  remember  it. 


72 


CHAPTER     XIII. 


THE   AMBITIOUS   ONE. 


BONAPARTE,  skillful  in  ruling, 
Wanted  the  skill  for  well  schooling 

That  good  though  dangerous  principle 
Which  in  his  breast  was  ascendent, 
Which  made  his  powers  all  attendant 

To  its  will.     He  was  ambition's  slave. 


THE   AMBITIOUS   ONE.  73 

He  who  his  own  spirit  guideth 
Stronger  is,  than  he  who  'bideth 

In  a  great  city  as  conquerer. 
He  who  has  no  rule,  is  spoken 
Of  as  a  city  whose  broken 

Walls  are  with  vile  weeds  and  grasses  grown. 

Mars,  the  fierce  god,  to  vain  glory 
Led  him  through  battle  fields  gory: 

How  must  his  mind  have  in  lonely  hours, 
Thronged  with  a  valley  of  dry  bones; 
And  his  ears  filled  with  the  deep  groans, 

Groans  he  had  heard  'neath  his  horse's  tread  ? 

When  on  the  "  lone  isle  "  an  outcast, 
Did  not  the  whistling  winds'  blast 

Bring  the  dread  shrieks  to  his  memory, 
Heard  on  the  dark  field  of  battle, 
Shrieks  that  the  wild  din  and  rattle 

Of  his  artillery  smothered  not  ? 


74  POEMS. 

Did  not  the  rain  drops  at  eve-tide, 
Seem  like  the  tears  of  some  girl  bride 

Widowed;  or  those  by  some  mother  shed 
Over  a  husband  or  son  brave, 
Hurried  away  to  the  still  grave, 

Slain  in  the  wars  of  Ambition's  dupe  ? 

«. 

Did  not  the  low  murm'ring  sea  breeze, 
Breath  of  the  wild  rolling  salt  seas, 

Seem  like  the  moans  of  the  murdered  one, 
Whose  heart  he  crushed  by  unkindness, 
While  his  own  soul  was  in  blindness 

Leagued,  to  the  fiend  form  that  governed  him  ? 

France  had  become  a  great  empire ; 
Brighter,  still  brighter  the  wild  fire 

Burned  in  the  breast  of  Napoleon. 
Could  his  pride  suffer  that  ever 
She  should  be  ruled  by  one  never 

Born  to  him  who  had  established  her? 


THE   AMBITIOUS   ONE.  75 

He  had  no  son,  and  the  treasure 
He  had  heaped  up  gave  no  pleasure, 

Knowing  if  death  came  he  left  it  all. 
Loudly  his  pride  and  ambition 
Called  for  a  change  of  position, 

Change  that  might  bring  him  a  royal  heir. 

Deeply  was  Josephine  grieving, 
When,  by  her  skill  in  perceiving, 

She  saw  how  coldly  the  Emperor 
Was  to  her  day  by  day  growing; 
Bitter  tears,  frequently  flowing, 

Made  her  cheek  paler  and  thinner  grow. 

Fate  had  forbidden  her  bearing 
Offspring,  to  him  who  was  caring 

Nothing  for  love  or  for  holiness, 
Could  his  fame  not  be  augmented; 
Only  one  thing  now  prevented 

Joining  the  Caesars  and  Bonapartes. 


76  POEMS. 

Could  his  great  mind  to  such  folly 
Stoop,  or  a  thought  so  unholy 

Cherish,  as  parting  from  Josephine  ? 
Only  can  those  whom  Ambition 
Blindly  has  led  to  perdition, 

Tell  how  the  siren  devours  the  soul. 

What  is  Ambition?     The  moving 
Force  of  the  mind,  the  reproving 

Spirit  that  breaks  the  world's  lethargy. 
What  the  abuse?     It  is  losing 
Sway  o'er  the  mind;  and  refusing 

Even  to  listen  to  reasoning. 

'T  is  a  continual  death  weight 

Bound  to  the  soul:  to  be  called  great, 

Constitutes  then  the  whole  happiness; 
Down  falls  the  heart's  best  affection; 
Truthfulness,  honor,  reflection, 

Cast  to  the  wind  are  as  chaff  is. 


77 


CHAPTER     XIV. 


THE     BAY     OF     HOPE     DARKENED. 


IT  is  an  old,  but  good  saying, 
Worthy  of  carefully  weighing, 

"Many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup  and  lip." 
Many  a  flower  at  its  blooming 
Promises  fruit,  when  consuming 

Blast  may  be  deep  in  its  calix  hid. 


78  POEMS. 

Josephine  saw  the  clouds  lower 
Round  her,  and  knowing  the  power 

Daily  she  lost  o'er  the  Emperor, 
Joyed,  when  her  Hortense  was  mother, 
Giving  Napoleon's  brother 

Heir  to  his  name  and  inheritance. 

For  she  was  hoping,  by  giving 
To  the  child  name  of  the  living 

Emperor,  he  might  pursuaded  be 
To  make  the  child  his  own  lawful 
Heir,  and  by  this  means  her  awful 

Fate  would  most  surely  be  warded  off. 

And  as  that  bud  was  unfolding, 
Bonaparte,  in  it  beholding 

Traits  of  his  own  warlike  character, 
Bade  that  the  boy  be  respected, 
As  the  one  France  now  expected 

Next  to  preside  and  rule  over  her. 


THE   BAY    OF   HOPE   DARKENED.  79 

France,  with  a  glad  exclamation, 
Welcomed  the  wise  declaration, 

Honored  the  second  Napoleon. 
Josephine,  blessed  by  her  grandchild, 
Happy,  because  a  kind  fate  smiled, 

Looked  on  the  world  with  untroubled  eye. 

Man  is  a  shadow  that  fleeth 
Ere  one  can  say  that  he  seeth; 

Trusting  in  princes  is  vanity. 
Death  cuts  us  all  to  one  bevel. 
Earth  is  the  great  human  level. 

Nobles  to  dust  turn  like  lowly  born. 

Death  saw  the  child,  and  an  arrow 
Sped  from  his  bow,  for  the  narrow 

Grave  claimed  the  form  of  the  little  one ; 
And  the  bright  angels  above  him, 
Wanted  him  where  they  could  love  him, 

Not  as  an  earth,  but  a  heaven  child. 


80  POEMS. 

Josephine  deeply  affected 

By  what  she  had  not  expected 

So  soon  would  come  to  the  royal  born, 
Wept  not  alone  that  he  left  her, 
But  that  grim  death  had  bereft  her 

In  him,  of  all  her  remaining  hope. 

Not  that  the  crown  should  be  taken 
Cared  she,  if  love  still  unshaken 

Might  be  her  own;  but  it  grieved  her  sore, 
Thinking  she  who  might  be  wearing 
Her  crown,  and  with  it  be  sharing 

Bonaparte's  love,  was  an  Austrian. 

With  this  dark  prospect  before  her, 
Striving  for  aught  to  restore  her 

To  the  respect  of  her  despot  lord ; 
Fervently  prayed  him,  while  weeping, 
That  he  his  holy  vow  keeping, 

Might  make  her  Eugene  his  lawful  heir. 


THE   RAY   OF   HOPE   DARKENED.  81 

But  in  his  mind  there  now  floated 
Beautiful  vision,  he  gloated 

On  in  his  dreams;  should  there  never  be 
Really,  realization 
Of  all  his  anticipation, 

Lover-like  had  of  the  Caesar  born? 

Yes,  there  must  be  ;  but  he  told  her 
Not  yet  how  cheap  he  had  sold  her 

Who  had  so  long  been  his  ruling  star. 
Feigned  to  her  that  he  accepted 
Eugene  as  heir;  this  protected 

Her  from  all  feelings  of  bitterness. 

But  the  time  came  when  she  well  knew 
That  even  she  had  become  due 

To  the  great  gamester  that  Bonaparte 
Played  with:  for  losing  the  last  stake 
He  had  naught  left  that  he  could  take 

But  her,  to  give  to  Ambition's  hand. 


82 


CHAPTER    XV. 


THE   DIVOKCE. 


DEAD,  while  yet  living,  for  surely 
It  is  not  life  to  demurely 

Sit  down  a  being  disconsolate; 
Nor  is  it  death;  for  in  dying, 
Though  to  a  worse  fate  were  flying, 

We  might  be  free  from  our  present  ills. 


THE   DIVORCE.  83 

Woman,  hast  thou  not  a  nearer 
Friend  than  a  brother,  and  dearer 

To  thy  own  soul  than  thy  being  is  ? 
In  whom  are  all  thy  best  joys  found? 
How  to  thy  ear  would  such  words  sound 

From  him,  as  Josephine  listened  to  ? 

Bonaparte  loved  her  (?)     Oh  !  heaven ! 
Why  was  the  power  ever  given, 

Given  to  him  over  Josephine  ? 
Still  he  declared  he  would  love  her 
Ever  the  same,  nor  above  her 

Prize  his  young  beautiful  Austrian. 

Bonaparte  loved  her,  but  better 
Loved  his  own  fame ;  to  unfetter 

Her  from  his  soul,  and  thus  higher  rise, 
Though  it  might  cost  him  the  heart-ache, 
Fame,  with  its  wreath,  would  in  part  make 

Even  that  wrong  right,  the  tempter  said. 


84  POEMS. 

Therefore  he  told  her  no  longer 
Could  they  be  bound  by  aught  stronger 

Than  by  the  ties  that  bound  other  friends. 
She  must  depart;  for  Maria 
Waited  for  her ;  his  desire 

Was  that  she  ever  might  happy  live. 

Josephine,  hearing  her  doom  told, 

Fell  to  the  floor,  as  though  death's  cold 

Hand  had  deprived  her  of  consciousness ; 
Fell,  like  the  wounded  dove  "breathing 
Out  life  'mong  the  stars,"  when  receiving 

Shaft  from  the  bow  of  Eurytion. 

As  in  the  dove's  breast  the  arrow 
Fell  to  the  ground,  so  her  sorrow 

Fixed  in  her  soul  was,  she  bore  it  down 
In  the  wound,  even  to  death's  door, 
Being  there,  bearing  it  no  more 

Left  the  dart,  laid  at  the  archer's  feet. 


THE   DIVORCE.  85 

In  her  deep  sorrow  she  ever 
Bonaparte  loved,  and  would  never 

Call  him  unkind;  but  was  deeming  that 
It  was  not  him  who  commanded; 
But  it  was  France  who  demanded 

That  she  should  make  the  great  sacrifice. 

But  in  her  own  mind  was  knowing 
That  she  would  ne'er  have  been  going 

Far  from  her  throne  and  the  Emperor, 
Had  not  Napoleon  trusted 
By  it,  to  gain  what  he  lusted 

For,  full  sway  over  a  conquered  world. 

She  did  not  curse  as  did  Dido, 

(When  she,  forewarned  that  her  shadow 

Should  not  in  Hades  be  reconciled: 
That,  from  the  grim  world  appearing, 
Should  her  pale  ghost  oft'  be  nearing 

Him  who  had  coldly  forsaken  her;) 


86  POEMS. 

But,  with  the  gentlest  submission, 
Yielded  her  royal  position; 

Gave  to  Maria  Louisa  all, 
Like  a  good  child  whom  its  mother 
Careful,  has  taught  how  to  smother 

Every  evil  propensity. 

Josephine  thought  when  this  blow  came 
Deeply  again  of  the  old  dame, 

Martinique's  sybil,  Euphemia; 
Her  faith  had  now  become  stronger 
In  the  tale  told,  and  no  longer 

Doubted  that  destiny  governed  her. 


87 


CHAPTER      XYI. 


MALMAISON   AND   NAVARRE. 


JOSEPHINE  from  the  French  court  sent, 
To  that  loved  mansion  alone  went, 

Where,  as  the  bride  of  Napoleon, 
Twelve  years  before  she  had  gladly 
Entered.  What  contrast!  now  sadly, 

More  than  a  widow,  she  enters  there. 


88  POEMS. 

Bonaparte's  room,  as  he  left  it 
Still  must  remain;  it  was  not  fit 

(So  she  deemed)  that  she  should  alter  it; 
There  lay  his  chart,  books,  and  clothing; 
Here  was  her  rest,  when  with  loathing, 

She  would  leave  earth,  to  weep  over  love. 

Several  months  of  unbroken 
Sorrow  she  passed  here;  each  token 

That  could  remind  of  the  Emperor, 
Opened  anew  the  deep  heart-wound; 
Too  much  of  sorrow  she  here  found, 

So  sought  Navarre  and  its  solitude. 

Desolate  all  its  fair  grounds  lay, 
As  a  sad  mark  of  that  dark  day 

France  saw  —  the  dread  Revolution. 
Ev'rything  sere  and  neglected, 
Type  of  her  heart  so  dejected, 

Could  she  but  love  such  a  resting  place  ? 


MALMAISON  AND  NAVABRE.        89 

Here  she  was  daily  pursuing 
Means  to  efface  the  sad  ruin 

Marks  that  were  ev'ry  where  round  her; 
But,  the  proud  hopes  of  her  fond  heart 
Kuined,  would  no  more  to  life  start, 

Or  as  the  broken  down  gardens  thrive. 

Here,  at  Navarre,  come  the  tidings 
That  to  fair  Josephine's  heart  brings 

Joy,  with  its  mingling  of  bitterness. 
Lo !  there  is  born  a  Prince  royal, 
Loud  cries  each  subject  most  loyal ; 

Echo  the  message  reverberates. 

Josephine's  soul  thrills  with  pleasure, 
For  she  well  knows  beyond  measure 

Now  is  the  joy  of  Napoleon ; 
After  the  pleasure-thrill,  sadness 
Comes,  when  she  thinks  to  what  madness 

That  child  has  driven  great  Bonaparte. 


90  POEMS. 

And  how  that  madness  brought  anguish, 
Anguish  to  her,  she  must  languish, 

Pine  for  the  love  that  was  given  now 
To  that  boy's  Austrian  mother; 
Would  to  the  gods  she  could  smother 

Memories  sad  of  her  wretchedness. 

Josephine  deemed  it  a  pleasure 
Even  to  look  on  the  treasure, 

Which  had  cost  her  such  a  sacrifice. 
Had  not  her  heart-strings  been  broken? 
Troubles  too  great  to  be  spoken 

She  bore  —  Maria,  a  royal  babe. 

Few  were  the  pangs  of  the  mother, 
Many  the  pangs  of  the  other 

Suff'rer:  Maria  Louisa  knew 
Naught  of  the  anguish  of  soul  woes, 
How  they  surpassed  even  birth  throes : 

All  was  too  well  known  to  Josephine. 


MALMAISON   AND  NAVAEBE.  91 

Bonaparte  brought  her  the  young  child; 
When  she  beheld  him,  she  wept,  —  smiled, 

Smiled  through  a  torrent  of  falling  tears ; 
As  oft  in  nature  the  sun  bright 
Looks  through  a  cloud,  and  its  warm  light 

Shines  on  of  rain  drops  a  myriad. 

Close  to  her  bosom  she  presses 
Bonaparte's  child,  and  caresses 

The  son,  as  she  oft  had  his  royal  sire ; 
Seeing  the  father's  loved  image, 
Pays  to  the  child  the  same  homage 

Carthage's  queen  did  to  Ascanius. 

Could  not  such  heartfelt  devotion 
Waken  a  tender  emotion 

In  the  cold  heart  of  Napoleon? 
He  so  well  skilled  in  excusing 
Wrongs,  might  have  felt  an  accusing 

Spirit,  but  quick  he  would  smother  it. 


92 


CHAPTER      XVII. 


THE   FALLEN   STAB. 


THEEE  are,  who  tell  us  the  stars  guide 
All  of  us  over  the  time  tide, 

Down  to  the  gulf  of  oblivion. 
There  are,  who  trust  to  the  fable, 
Deeming  that  He  who  was  able 

To  make  stars,  might  make  them  ominous, 


THE   FALLEN   STAB.  93 

These,  watch  the  signs  of  the  burning 
Orbs  of  still  night,  and  are  learning 

Thus,  or  pretend  they  learn,  augury. 
If  the  stars,  changing  positions 
Alter  the  winds,  dispositions 

Human  as  well  may  be  changed  by  stars. 

It  is  a  mind  superstitious, 

That  would  deem  one  star  propitious, 

While  in  the  same  constellation  was, 
'Neath  the  same  cloud  by  chance  hiding, 
In  the  same  blue  home  abiding, 

Other  stars,  called  most  unfortunate. 

Born  of  a  marvellous  nation, 
In  land  of  wild  incantation, 

Nature  made  Josephine  marvellous; 
Even  her  mind  had  a  blending 
Of  traits,  betraying  strong  tending 

To  a  belief  in  Astrology. 


94  POEMS. 

This,  she  was  often  betraying 
When  at  her  vitals  were  preying 

Sorrows,  as  once  the  fierce  vultures  preyed 
On  his,  who  brought  down  from  heaven 
Fire,  that  its  power  might  be  given 

To  men,  as  to  gods  —  old  Prometheus. 

When  came  the  last  and  worse  trial, 
When  the  wrath  angel's  last  vial 

On  her  was  poured ;  when  proud  Bonaparte 
Left  her,  she  said  'twas  her  reigning 
Star  that  ruled  France,  at  its  waning 

He  would  be  thrown  from  his  eminence. 

Truly  she  said ;  if  no  guiding 
Star  ruled  the  fates,  the  abiding, 

Provident  justice  of  Deity 
Could  not  forever  afflict  her; 
But  from  her  foes  would  protect  her, 

Bring  down  the  high  hands  that  troubled  her. 


THE   FALLEN  STAB.  95 

Bonaparte's  warriors  no  longer 
Were  the  invincible,  stronger 

Arms  had  repeatedly  vanquished  them; 
And  his  throne  shook  like  the  quaking 
Of  earth,  and  the  nations  were  waking 

Up  to  the  conqueror's  overthrow. 

Long  had  they  lain  down  supinely 
In  the  dust;  God  had  divinely 

Given  them  strength ;  they  would  use  it  now ; 
Bonaparte  no  more  should  wander 
With  his  proud  legions,  to  squander 

Happiness,  life-blood  and  liberty. 

Bonaparte's  glory  was  fading; 
Still  he  was  hoping  by  wading 

Through  seas  of  blood,  earth  might  tremble,  as 
In  the  wind,  aspen  leaves  quiver, 
When  he  should  pour  as  a  river, 

Armies  upon  them,  to  devastate. 


96  POEMS. 

Useless  the  strife ;  it  was  striving 
'Gainst  the  old  world,  now  reviving 

From  a  deep,  long,  and  refreshing  sleep, 
In  all  its  youthfulness  waking; 
From  its  grey  locks  the  world  shaking 

Age,  warred  as  ancient  Entellus,  once 

When  he  was  dared  to  the  contest, 
Matched  by  young  Dares  and  close  pressed 

By  thick  blows,   conscious   worth   fired   his 

soul; 

As  the  thick  showers  on  the  house-top 
Fell  his  strokes,  quickly  dealt,  —  no  stop 

Till  o'er  the  plain  he  brave  Dares  drove. 

So  the  world,  armed  as  with  Cestus, 
Fell  on  the  Corsican;  he  thus 

Vanquished  was,  and  like  young  Dares  gave 
Up  the  fierce  contest,  and  yielding 
To  the  gods,  sought  for  the  shielding 

Refuge,  which  friendly  hearts  offered  him. 


97 


CHAPTER      XVIII.. 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 


BONAPARTE'S  bright  days  of  glory 
Gone,  seem  to  him  like  a  story 

When  it  is  told;  a  dark  vision  is 
All  that  remains;  a  Chimera 
Soon  to  devour  now  draws  nearer; 

He,  whom  the  nations  feared,  fearful  is 


98  POEMS. 

And  it  comes  —  Bonaparte  's  banished ! 
Seeing  his  earth  hopes  have  vanished 

Has  he  aught  now  that  can  comfort  him? 
Can  that  son,  born  to  be  cage-bound 
Like  a  wild  beast,  heal  the  sore  wound 

Made  in  the  Monarch's  ambitious  soul  ? 

Bonaparte  's  stripped  of  his  power  — 
Wrenched  from  his  grasp  in  an  hour, 

Is  that  for  which  he  had  labored  years. 
Island  of  Elba  his  home  now  j 
She  who  should  soothe  his  care-worn  brow, 

Ease  his  pained  heart,  has  deserted  him; 

Gone  to  the  home  of  her  father, 
Born  of  a  King,  she  would  rather 

Not  be  deprived  of  a  royal  home. 
Bonaparte's  crown  she  respected  : 
Crownless,  must  she  be  expected 

Now  in  his  downfall  to  cherish  him? 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE.  99 

Who  is  it  when  blight  has  coldly 
Fixed  on  man's  name,  that  will  boldly 

Bleach  the  dark  stains  of  tongues  pestilent; 
Solving  the  riddle,  and  clearing 
All  doubts  away,  that  appearing 

Pure  and  still  noble,  the  loved  may  be? 

'T  is  the  true  wife ;  she  will  ever 
Bless  whom  earth  curses,  and  never 

Cease  to  hide  faults  from  the  idle  gaze. 
Never  desert;  but  will  follow 
Where  famine  stalks  with  its  hollow 

Cheek;  and  for  love  build  its  sepulchre. 

Is  there  no  mortal  whose  tender 
Heart  some  assistance  may  render 

To  the  unfortunate  Bonaparte? 
Some  one  to  cheer  the  lone  outcast, 
Wiping  the  marks  of  the  dread  past, 

Quite  from  the  Hero's  pressed  memory? 


100  POEMS. 

Love  with  its  halo  might  lighten 
Some  of  his  cares ;  his  hopes  brighten ; 

Bonaparte,  even  at  Elba  might. 
Being  loved,  conquer  the  yearning 
Spirit  that  in  him  was  burning, 

Burning  to  vanquish  his  vanquishers. 

Yes  there  is  one,  (though  Maria, 
Has  in  her  breast  no  desire 

Now  to  commune  with  the  Emperor), 
Whose  heart  would  fill  full  of  gladness, 
Could  she  cheer  Bonaparte's  sadness, 

Josephine,  Josephine,  Josephine. 

He  whom  she  loved  was  afflicted; 
With  her  star,  (as  she  predicted,) 

Had  waned  the  fame  of  Napoleon : 
Now  she  would  fly  to  the  outcast; 
Freely  forgive  him  the  wrongs  past, 

Which  had  made  her  such  a  sufferer. 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE.  101 

Could  he  refuse  her  the  blessing 

Of  his  now  care-wreathed  brow  pressing, 

Since  there  was  none,  save,  to  sympathize  ? 
She  would  fly  over  the  ocean, 
She  might  perchance  the  commotion 

Soothe,  in  the  breast  of  the  troubled  one. 

Even  this,  which  she  had  cherished 
As  her  last  hope,  had  now  perished: 

No  more  the  goddess  Hygeia 
O'er  her  health  watched,  pale  disease  came 
Sowing  its  seeds  in  her  frail  frame, 

Destined  to  soon  let  the  spirit  free. 


102 


CHAPTER      XIX. 


DEATH . 


WHAT  is  death?     Is  it  a  dreamless 
Sleep  ?     And  the  grave,  is  it  gleamless  ? 

Is  there  no  ray  of  hope  piercing  it  ? 
What  is  death?     Is  it  but  losing 
Forms  we  here  wore,  and  then  choosing 

Other  forms,  demon  or  angel  like  ? 


DEATH.  103 

What  is  death?     Utter  destruction 
Of  this  strange  human  construction, 

And  the  soul,  even  more  strangely  formed  ? 
Is  the  grave  only  a  flow'r  bed, 
Nourished  by  dust  of  those  long  dead; 

Will  that  dust  never  immortal  rise? 

Death  is  like  sleep,  one  awaking 
Always  the  same  form  is  taking 

That  he  bore,  ere  he  was  slumbering, 
Only  refreshed,  and  the  death  sleep 
Has  the  same  waking,  'tis  then  meet 

That  we  prepare  for  our  longest  sleep. 

When  we  awake,  at  the  sounding 
Of  the  last  trump,  the  surrounding 

Clods  of  the  valley  shall  yield  their  dead, 
Many  a  turf  of  the  hill-side, 
Many  a  wave  of  the  blue  tide 

Presses  the  dust  of  humanity. 


104  POEMS. 

He  that  was  holy  will  still  be 
Holy;  the  filthy  still  filthy; 

Only  changed  as  to  mortality. 
Bone  will  to  bone  be  united; 
Since  out  of  chaos  benighted; 

Matter  came,  ne'er  was  an  atom  lost. 


All  must  die,  none  are  too  youthful. 
None  too  old,  wayward  or  truthful, 

Evil  and  good,  young  and  old  must  die. 
Death  fears  not  summer's  hot  breezes; 
Winter's  cold  blast  never  freezes, 

Darkness  and  night  are  no  barrier. 

At  noon  the  pestilence  stalketh 
Through  the  proud  city  and  walketh 

Shapeless  among  the  high  mountain  homes, 
Death  enters  cottage  or  palace, 
Bearing  in  each  hand  a  chalice 

Poisoned,  to  press  to  his  victim's  lips. 


DEATH. 

' 

Josephine  folded  her  pale  hands, 
While  the  death  angel  the  life  bands 

Broke,  which  were  binding  her  spirit  in, 
Upward  it  flew  to  the  regions, 
Where,  with  the  sanctified   legions, 

She  might  be  crowned  through  eternity. 


Down  went  the  star  in  its  beauty: 
Latest  life  care  and  last  duty 

Now  was  completed,  the  sorrow  clouds 
Crossing  the  star,  left  it  shining, 
And  as  it  sank,  its  declining 

Glories  were  spread  o'er  the  universe. 

Furled  were  the  sails  in  port  heaven, 
Anchored  at  last,  though  oft  driven 

By  the  fierce  winds  of  adversity. 
Yield^the  ship  to  its  maker: 
Jordan  ha4  rolled  the  last  breaker 

That  would  dash  Josephine's  shattered  bark, 


106  POEMS. 

Heaven,  the  blest  land  of  no  night: 
Those  who  dwell  there  need  no  sunlight, 

Nor  the  pale  moon,  or  the  twinkling  stars. 
He  who  from  nothing  a  world  brought, 

thAS^&Ls 

Hung  it  in  space,  to  revolve  taught, 

Lights  '}m  wwa-  throne  with  his  glory  beams, 


Ending  life's  fitful  commotion, 
May  I  be  worthy  a  portion 

In  that  eternal  inheritance,* 
Even  as  servant,  attending 
One  of  the  throng  who  are '  bending 

Down  at  the  throne  of  the  Holy  One. 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


109 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER     I. 


WHERE  the  bright  morning 
Sun,  in  its  rising 
From  its  east  chamber, 
Gildeth  the  mountains, 
On  whose  pale  summits 
Snow-drifts  are  lying, 
On  whose  rough  bosoms 
Forests  are  growing; 


110  POEMS. 

Where  in  the  valley 
Hushes  the  river; 
And  the  buds  bursting, 
Change  into  flowers, 
Filling  with  sweetness, 
All  the  air  'round  them; 
Where  the  birds  warble 
Songs  to  their  maker, 
Songs  full  of  pathos, 
And  their  breasts  quiver, 
Like  the  soft  lute-string 
Struck  by  the  skillful 
Hand  of  the  artist; 
Where  the  lambs,  roving, 
Skipping  and  playing, 
Close  to   their  mothers, 
Seem  to  be  happy, 
There  is  a  cottage; 
And  the  fresh  roses, 
Of  a  June  morning, 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     Ill 

Cover  the  window, 
Window  that  westward, 
Looks  to  the  mountains ; 
And  the  tall  elm-trees, 
At  the  four  corners, 
Throw  their  deep  shadows 
Over  the  low  roof; 
And  the  moss,  growing 
On  the  brown  wood-work, 
Covers  with  freckles. 
Here  in  the  evening, 
Ere  the  moon  coming, 
Throws  her  pale  splendor 
On  the  blue  lakelet; 
Ere  the  first  star -beam 
Dares  to  be  shining 
In  the  broad  heavens 
After  the  sunset; 
While  there  still  lingers 
'Round  the  high  mountains, 


112  POEMS. 

Some  of  the  glory 
Of  the  bright  day  king; 
And  all  the  clouds  are 
Tinged  with  the  purple, 
And  the  deep  crimson 
Of  the  sun's  setting; 
When  the  light  golden 
Seems  to  be  fading 
Into  the  azure, 
Then  from  the  pasture, 
Where  they  the  day  long, 
Happy  have  wandered 
Cropping  the  herbage, 
Drinking  the  water 
Clear  as  the  crystal, 
Come  the  cows  homeward; 
And  at  the  barnyard 
Meeting  the  milkers, 
Fill  the  pails  brimming. 
But  when  the  clouds  fade, 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     113 

Losing  their  bright  glow, 
Growing  more  sombre, 
Float  in  the  star  light; 
And  on  the  gray  rock, 
Down  by  the  meadow, 
Whipporwills  singing 
Songs  of  the  night  time, 
Make  one  feel  gloomy; 
Then  in  the  cottage, 
In  the  old  arm-chair, 
Sits  the  good  farmer 
Reading  the  story 
Of  the  blest  infant 
Born  in  a  manger. 
By  him  his  good  dame 
Sits  with  her  knitting; 
And  the  granddaughter, 
"  Love  of  the  Household," 
Stands  by  the  arm-chair,. 
Stroking  the  grey  locks 


114  POEMS. 

Of  her  grandfather; 
Now  and  then  looking 
At  the  old  time-piece, 
That  in  the  corner 
Fifty  years  standing 
Never  has  failed  them, 
Giving  its  warning, 
"Time  fast  was  flying," 
As  it  were  bidding 
Them  to  be  ready, 
For  the  last  summons. 
Now  her  eyes  wand'ring, 
Fall  on  a  picture, 
On  the  wall  hanging; 
Though  it  is  dingy, 
Still  she  discovers 
There  a  fair  maiden 
Seated  beside  one, 
Handsome  and  manly; 
And  her  own  bosom 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     115 

Beating  so  wildly, 
Tells  but  too  plainly, 
She  has  a  lover. 
But  to  the  old  clock 
Sounding  its  eighth  chime, 
All  eyes  are  turning, 
For  the  retiring 
Hour  is  approaching; 
And  the  whole  household 
Kneel  down  together, 
While  the  old  farmer 
Prays  to  the  Father; 
But  the  fair  maiden, 
Though  she  was  kneeling, 
Heard  not  a  word  said, 
But  when  arising, 
Lighting  her  candle, 
Whispers  a  good  night, 
Hies  to  her  chamber; 
But  not  to  slumber, 


116  POEMS. 

Silently  listens, 
Listens  till  certain 
Both  her  grandparents 
Soundly  are  sleeping. 
Then  like  a  fairy 
Runs  to  her  mirror, 
Curling  her  dark  locks, 
That  like  a  shower 
Fall  on  a  bosom 
Whiter  than  snow  is. 
Holding  the  candle 
Nearer  the  clear  glass 
In  its  antique  frame, 
What  does  she  see  there? 
Is  it  a  picture? 
Never  was  living 
Beauty  so  perfect. 
From  those  eyes  flashing, 
Queenly  expression; 
And  the  brow  pure  and 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      117 

Fair  as  the  lily; 

While  on  her  cheek,  bloom 

Roses  of  health-glow. 

Is  it  a  wonder 

If  a  faint  smile  played 

Round  those  sweet  lips,  where 

Kisses  would  soon  be 

Lavished  profusely? 

Back  to  the  parlor, 

Now  she  returning, 

Looks  at  the  old  clock, 

Counting  the  moments 

Ere  she  may  greet  him, 

Who  the  last  evening, 

As  they  were  strolling 

Down  by  the  lake  side, 

Whispered  his  love  words, 

Gently  beseeching, 

That  she  might  answer, 

If  a  like  passion 


118  POEMS. 

Burned  in  her  bosom; 
But  she  had  left  him, 
Answering  nothing, 
When  she  was  longing, 
Longing  to  tell  him 
How  she  had  loved  him, 
Hoping  and  fearing. 
But  the  time  passes, 
When  he  had  told  her 
He  should  be  with  her; 
And  the  fair  maiden 
Sighs,  and  a  tear  starts : 
Had  he  forsaken, 
Who  the  last  evening 
Made  her  so  happy? 
Then  she  remembered 
How,  when  he  left  her, 
Pale  was  his  forehead, 
And  his  hand  trembled, 
While  he  was  pressing 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     119 

Hers,  that  she  coldly 
Drew  from  his  clasping. 
What  was  the  reason 
That  he  should  tarry  ? 
Was  he  then  mourning, 
Thinking  her  heartless  ? 
Or  was  he  scorning, 
Seeking  some  other 
Who  would  not  trifle 
With  his  devotion? 
Had  she  but  told  him, 
When  he  was  pleading, 
Half  her  heart's  worship, 
He  had  been  richer, 
She  none  the  poorer, 
Far  less  unhappy. 
Now  she  will  listen, 
He  may  be  crossing 
Over  the  stone  bridge, 
And  she  may  hear  him, 


120  POEMS. 


Hear  his  quick  footfall, 
And  must  stop  weeping, 
Lest  he  should  see  her, 
And  thus  discover 

How  she  was  loving; 
I 

Yet  was  half  hoping, 
There  might  one  tear-drop 
Hang  on  her  lashes, 
So  he  might  ask  her 
Had  she  been  weeping? 
Hark !  he  is  coming  j 
That  is  his  low  tap, 
Heard  on  the  casement. 
Lifts  up  the  door  latch 
Slowly  and  gently, 
Lest  that  grandmother 
Should  be  awakened. 
Harold  has  entered, 
Smiling  but  sadly, 
Welcoming  Mary  — 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     121 

" Love  of  the  Household" 
Takes  the  great  arm-chair 
Left  by  the  farmer, 
But  the  low  cricket, 
Standing  beside  it, 
Where  the  fair  Mary 
Would  have  been  seated, 
Careless  he  moveth 
Into  the  corner. 
Then  begins  chatting 
Over  the  gossip 
Of  the  whole  village, 
Tells  of  some  sisters, 
Over  the  mountains, 
Lovers  of  nature, 
Who  have  invited 
Him  on  the  morrow, 
With  them  to  ramble, 
Where  there  are  growing 
Wonderful  flowers, 


122  POEMS. 

And  to  the  ledges 
Where  the  red  tourmaline 
Is  in  abundance, 
And  the  green  beryl, 
Felspar  and  mica, 
Quartz  and  the  garnet, 
Yield  to  the  student 
Plentiful  harvest. 
Mary  was  silent. 
What  was  the  matter  ? 
Had  he  forgotten, 
What  the  last  evening 
Was  his  whole  story? 
No.     He  remembered 
More  —  that  she  coldly 
Answered  him  nothing; 
And  when  they  parted, 
Heartlessly  left  him 
Without  a  token 
Of  her  affection. 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      123 

Still  he  is  chatting, 
But  not  a  word  says 
That  she  may  answer; 
And  the  big  tears  start. 
Does  he  observe  them? 
Now  he  is  talking 
With  the  white  kitten, 
Whom  its  fair  mistress 
Sees  is  her  rival, 
On  his  knee  sitting, 
Quietly  purring. 
Now  he  arises, 
Home  must  be  going, 
That  on  the  morrow, 
He  may  with  vigor 
Ramble  the  mountains ; 
He  does  not  linger 
Long  at  the  doorway; 
Does  not  ask  Mary 


124  POEMS. 


If  in  the  moonlight 
She  will  go  with  him 
Far  as  the  stone  bridge: 
Leaves  her  abruptly, 
With  a  faint  "  good  night," 
Not  the  sweet  "  good  bye" 
That  he  was  wont  to 
Speak  as  he  kissed  her. 
Now  the  door  closes. 
Wretched  is  Mary; 
Let  her  remember 
Harold  was  last  night, 
So  is  he  now  too, 
Did  she  but  know  it, 
As  he  stands  looking 
In  through  the  window 
Watching  each  motion, 
Hoping  the  lesson 
Will  prove  to  Mary 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     125 

That  in  flirtations, 
Oft  the  beginner, 
Finds  that  the  victim 
Also  wears  armor. 


126 


CHAPTER      II. 


FROM  the  tall  elm  trees 
Blue  birds  sweet  singing, 
And  the  tame  red  breast 
On  the  old  gate  post 
Cheruping,  warbling; 
And  the  swift  swallow 
Twittering,  glancing, 
Chanticleer  loud  his 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     127 

Clarion  sounding, 
Make  a  full  chorus, 
Waken  the  household. 
And  first  arising, 
Mary  commences 
Breakfast  preparing: 
When  it  is  ready, 
Calls  her  grandparents ; 
And  they  together, 
While  the  sun  rises, 
Share  in  the  bounty 
Which  the  Great  Giver 
Has  on  them  lavished. 
And  the  meal  ended, 
Grandfather  goeth 
Out  to  his  labor, 
Turning  the  furrow 
Smoothly  and  even, 
That  on  the  morrow 
He  may  trust  earth  with 


128  POEMS. 

Grains  of  gold  seed  corn, 
Hoping  a  harvest. 
Mary  the  dishes 
Quietly  washes, 
And  this  completed 
Goes  to  the  churning; 
While  the  grandmother 
Works  at  the  distaff, 
Watching  her  Mary, 
Whom  she  sees  striving 
Hard  to  be  happy, 
Now  and  then  singing 
Parts  of  old  ballads ; 
Then  silent  gazing 
Out  at  the  window 
Noticing  nothing. 
Now  the  good  granddame 
Breaks  the  long  silence, 
Calls  to  her  Mary, 
" Love  of  the  Household" 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     129 

Saying,  "  come  Mary, 
Sit  thee  down  by  me, 
For  I  would  tell  thee, 
Tell  thee  a  story. 
Let  not  the  blushes 
Come  to  thy  fair  cheek, 
While  I  shall  let  thee 
Know  that  I  heard  thee 
Talking  the  last  night, 
With  thine  own  spirit. 
I  was  not  sleeping 
When  thy  guest  entered; 
Nay,  do  not  weep,  love; 
I  am  not  chiding; 
It  is  well  for  thee 
That  thy  young  heart  should 
Learn  to  be  loving. 
But,  gentle  Mary, 
Thou  hast  not  learned  yet 
All  the  heart's  workings; 


130  POEMS. 


And  thy  grandmother, 
Though  an  old  woman, 
Has  not  forgotten 
Days  of  her  girlhood. 
Mary,  I'll  show  thee 
What  love's  effects  are 
On  hearts  as  timid, 
Trusting  as  thine  is; 
Deeply  implanted, 
Part  of  the  nature, 
Ever  enduring, 
And  if  it  crushed  is, 
Crushes  all  with  it; 
For  in  the  heart's  core 
Lies  the  wound  deepest; 
There  it  will  rankle, 
Like  a  thorn  piercing; 
Fester,  embitter 
All  the  life's  current; 
And  the  cheek  pale  grows, 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     131 

As  by  sharp  famine, 

Till  the  soul  tired, 

Bursts  its  enclosure; 

And  all  around  ask, 

'  What  was  the  death  blow  ?  ' 

But  none  can  answer: 

Deepest  love  never 

Utters  the  story, 

But  with  its  secret 

Hid  in  the  darkness 

Of  its  own  prison, 

Flies  from  this  earth  scene. 

Not  so  a  man  loves, 

Though  he  may  never 

Banish  entirely 

Dreams  of  his  first  love ; 

But  in  the  tumult 

Of  the  world's  moving, 

Keeps  his  mind  distant 

From  his  own  feelings. 


132  POEMS. 


Only  at  twilight, 
Or  in  still  evening, 
When  he  is  lonely, 
Or  hears  a  voice  sound 
Like  the  loved  lost  one, 
That  a  tear  gushes 
Up  to  his  eye  lids; 
Then  his  mind  wanders 
Back  to  the  old  scenes, 
But  he  quick  rallys, 
Lets  some  wild  fury 
Seize  on  his  heart-strings. 
Man  may  grow  desperate, 
Sullen  and  heartless, 
But  rarely  dies,  by 
Being  neglected. 
Many  a  stern  man, 
Cold  and  dejected, 
Selfish  appearing, 
Has  in  his  bosom, 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     133 

Framed  and  hung  up  there, 
Pictures  of  beauty; 
And,  where  the  rose  bloomed, 
Still  there  remaineth 
Some  of  its  fragrance. 
Look  at  the  picture 
On  the  wall,  Mary; 
There  is  the  artist, 
Even  the  painter, 
Skill  of  whose  pencil 
Wrought  the  fair  picture, 
Wrought  his  own  form  there; 
With  his  the  maiden's. 
Oh !  I  remember, 
When  in  their  beauty, 
They  have  together 
Roamed  yonder  mountains, 
Gathering  flowers, 
And  the  bright  berries. 
Sometimes  I  noticed, 


134  POEMS. 

When  from  their  rambles 
They  had  returned  home, 
Home  to  the  cottage, 
Mary  coquettish, 
(Her  name  was  Mary,) 
Strove  to  seem  heartless. 
I  could  see  Walter's 
Brow  was  o'ershadowed, 
And  thaf  the  love-light 
Fled  from  his  dark  eye; 
But  when  the  smile  came 
Back  to  our  Mary, 
He  would  be  happy. 
Thus  it  was  often; 
And  I  was  chiding, 
Saying,  'not  so  child, 
Not  so  my  daughter.' 
But  she  replying, 
Said,  '  why  he  loves  me, 
Let  me  torment  him; 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     135 

I  am  good  sometimes, 
Shall  be  good  always, 
When  I  am  older.' 
But  in  the  autumn 
When  the  corn  ripened, 
And  the  fruit  mellow, 
Asked  to  be  gathered; 
When  the  first  frost  tinge, 
On  the  bleak  mountains, 
Had  turned  the  leaves  pale, 
Crimson  and  yellow; 
When  through  the  forest, 
Happy  the  huntsman 
Followed  the  red  fox, 
Season  of  sporting,- 
Walter  was  absent, 
Missed  at  our  fireside, 
Missed  in  the  evening, 
When  at  the  husking 
All  the  young  people 


136  POEMS. 


Joyful  assembled. 
Still  was  our  Mary 
Blithsome  and  happy, 
Romped  with  the  peasants, 
Sought  for  the  'red  ears;1 
And  when  the  lasses 
Asked,  where  was  Walter, 
Said  she  knew  nothing, 
And  was  less  caring, 
Hoped  he  was  happy, 
Happy  as  she  was; 
But  when  no  eye  saw 
Only  her  mother's, 
Then  was  the  gloom  cloud 
Over  her  brow  cast, 
And  the  salt  tear  fell 
When  she  was  sleeping, 
And  the  deep  sigh  came 
Up  from  her  bosom. 
Many  pale  moons  passed, 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     137 

And  the  snow  flakes  fell, 
And  the  broad  stream  was 
Bound  by  an  ice  bridge; 
Then  Mary  sought  him, 
Asked  his  forgivness, 
Begged  he  would  treat  her 
No  more  so  coldly, 
Once  more  receive  her 
Back  to  his  love  trust. 
And  he  received  her; 
(At  least  he  said  so) 
But  he  remembered, 
How  once  his  heart  bled, 
And  one  by  watching, 
Might  see  there  lurking 
Thoughts  of  revenging. 
When  spring  once  more  came, 
We  were  preparing 
Here  at  the  cottage, 
For  the  approaching 


138  POEMS. 

Wedding  of  Mary. 
Ev'rything  pleasant, 
Hearts  all  in  concord, 
Walter  and  Mary 
Seemed  to  be  striving, 
Each  that  the  other 
Might  be  made  happy. 
But  when  the  day  came 
Fixed  for  the  nuptials, 
Walter  appeared  not. 
And  when  the  priest  came 
That  he  might  bless  them, 
Mary  as  dead  lay; 
And  all  the  night  long, 
Here  on  my  bosom, 
Praying,  I  watched  her; 
But  when  the  morning 
Light  fell  upon  her, 
She  to  her  duties 
Went  uncomplaining; 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     139 

But  all  her  joys  fled, 
Only  smiled  once  more, 
When  she  received  you, 
Mary,  the  first  time 
Into  her  pale  arms. 
Smiling  she  left  us. 
Walter's  revenging, 
Though  it  did  murder 
Our  only  daughter, 
Left  us  not  childless ; 
For  since  then,  Mary, 
Hast  thou  been  made  l  The 
Love  of  the  Household."1 
Dost  thou  remember, 
That  a  tall  stranger, 
Not  many  years  gone 
Came  to  our  cottage  ? 
That  was  thy  father, 
He  for  forgiveness 
Came,  and  we  gave  it; 


140  POEMS. 

For  I  saw  written 
On  his  pale  features, 
That  in  his  heart  was 
Reared  a  green  grave  mound. 
Now  a  far  distant 
Land  is  his  last  home; 
For  he  is  sleeping." 


141 


CHAPTER      III. 


WHEN  the  tale  ended, 
Mary  was  weeping, 
For  she  had  learned  now, 
What  had  before  been 
Hid  from  her  kenning. 
Oft  had  she  questioned, 
Who  were  her  parents? 
And  the  reply  was 


142  POEMS. 

From  her  grandmother, 
Always  the  same  words, 
"  Those  who  would  love  thee 
Not  more  than  we  do." 
Now,  she  no  longer 
Wondered,  they  told  not, 
For  it  had  grieved  her, 
Learning  the  story, 
Sad,  yet  so  life  like, 
Full  of  the  breaking 
Of  the  young,  trusting 
Heart  of  her  mother : 
Yet,  she  saw  something 
Therein,  which  argued 
That  all  the  sorrow 
Might  have  been  warded, 
Had  not  that  mother 
Woke  in  her  lover, 
Spirit  revenging. 
And  now  her  own  breast 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     143 

Filled  was  with  chiding: 
Had  she  not  trifled 
With  the  affections 
Of  one  she  trusted? 
Might  not  a  fury 
Now  be  at  work  there  ? 
Could  she  not  fall  too? 
Fall  as  her  mother? 
Well  might  she  shudder. 
Up  to  her  chamber 
Mary  then  hastened, 
And  at  her  bed  side 
Humbly  she  kneeled  down, 
Asking  direction, 
Asking  the  help  of 
"Him  who  is  mighty," 
Trusting  her  welfare 
With  the  All  Careful. 
And  when  she  rose  up, 
Strength  had  been  gathered, 


144  POEMS. 

<     . 

And  she  determined 
Ere  the  night  dews  fell, 
That  she  would  conquer 
All  the  like  spirit, 
Spirit  of  trifling, 
She  might  inherit 
From  her  lost  mother. 
Then  comes  a  sad  thought, 
Where  now  is  Harold  ? 
Over  the  mountains, 
With  the  fair  sisters  ? 
Has  he  been  thinking, 
Once  while  he  sported, 
Thinking  of  Mary  ? 
And  something  whispers : 
"Always  is  thinking, 
Never  forgetting." 

What  was  it  whispered? 
•*         #•         *         *         * 

After  the  sun  turned 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     145 

From  the  high  noon  goal, 
Rolling  Hdown  westward, 
Stretched  to  the  north,  lay 
Piles  of  clouds  fleecy, 
One  from  another 
Rising  like  billows 
Covered  with  white  foam; 
But  at  their  bases 
Black  and  unbroken; 
And  from  the  mountains 
Rose  a  steam  upward, 
Earth  to  the  clouds  sent 
Vapors  sulphuric, 
That  soon  returning 
Would  wake  the  echoes. 
Now  'mong  the  elm  trees, 
Softly  a  breeze  played, 
And  the  dry,  parched  leaves 
Noisily  rustled, 
And  the  deep,  sultry 
10 


146  POEMS. 

Air  of  the  cottage 
Told  the  approaching 
Tempest  was  coming. 
Idle,  boy  anglers, 
Who  through  the  day  long, 
In  the  blue  lake,  had 
Patiently  fished  for 
Nibblers,  not  worth  the 
Trouble  of  scaling, 
Gave  up  their  cruel 
Sport,  for  they  well  knew 
Fish  would  not  bite  when 
Raged  the  wild  tempest, 
And  the  live  thunder 
Now  was  loud  roaring, 
Speaking  with  voice  of 
Ten  thousand  lions, 
Caged  in  the  pent  cloud  j 
And  the  bright  lightning 
Seemed  like  the  forked  tongue 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     147 

Of  some  huge  serpent 
Piercing  the  heavens. 
In  the  green  meadow 
Feeding,  the  filly 
Heard  the  loud  clang  of 
Nature's  war  trumpet; 
And  like  a  wild  steed 
Snorting,  the  field  o'er 
Bounds  in  her  wild  fright. 
Now  comes  the  rain  down, 
And  the  sharp  hail  Atones 
On  the  roof  clattering. 
As  the  old  farmer 
Looks  to  the  mountain, 
Sees  the  brave  oak  tree 
Torn  from  its  birth  place; 
And  the  tall  pine,  cleft 
Into  four-quarters, 
Hurled  to  the  valley. 
Mary  affrighted 


148  POEMS. 

• 

Knows  not  but  Harold, 
On  the  wild  mountain, 
Breathes  out  his  life  breath 
To  the  wild  tempest: 
Silently  prays  that 
God  may  preserve  him. 
But  what  is  coming 
Over  the  stone  bridge, 
Swift  as  the  lightning? 
It  is  the  black  steed 
Haroltf  is  driving:; 
Now  comes  a  loud  clap 
Of  the  harsh  thunder, 
And  the  fierce  mettle 
Of  the  swift  courser 
Fairly  aroused  is ; 
Wildly  he  dashes 
Saddle  and  rider, 
'Gainst  the  rude  railing 
Of  the  old  stone  bridge. 


THE  LOYE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     149 

Has  the  dark  river, 
Foaming  and  rushing, 
Swelled  by  the  torrent, 
Poured  down  the  mountain, 
Caught  on  its  bosom 
Harold's  dead  body? 
Wildly,  the  farmer, 
Followed  by  Mary 
And  the  grandmother, 
Hastes  to  the  wild  scene; 
Though  the  rain  drenches, 
And  the  bolts  threaten, 
Yet  will  they  seek  to 
Know  if  young  Harold 
Living  or  dead  is, 
Or,  if  the  stream  has 
Borne  from  their  viewing; 
But  they  behold  there 
Not  Harold  lifeless, 
But  a  pale  stranger, 


150  POEMS. 

Bleeding  and  dying. 
Gently  the  farmer 
Eaises  the  cold  form  j 
Scarcely  is  able, 
Now  he  has  grown  old, 
To  bear  the  strong  man 
Into  the  cottage. 
This   done  they  lay  him 
On  a  couch;  Mary 
Wipes  off  the  red  blood ; 
And  the  good  grand  dame. 
Like  all  old  women, 
Skillful  in  nursing, 
Poundeth  the  bitter 
Wormwood,  and  bindeth 
On  the  deep  flesh  wound, 
And  the  good  grandsire 
Mingles  the  cordial, 
Lavender,  strong  wine, 
Sweetened  with  honey. 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     151 

In  their  humane  acts, 
Mind  not  the  tempest, 
Till  by  chance,  Mary 
Sees  the  bow  painted, 
And  the  clouds  broken. 
*  *  #  * 

As  the  sun  setting 
Hides  his  bright  visage, 
Sinks  the  man  dying. 
Calls  the  old  farmer, 
Gives  him  a  paper, 
Looks  on  the  picture 
On  the  wall  hanging, 
Then  from  earth  passes. 
Mary  feels  lonely, 
And  the  air  cool  and 
Pure  seems  inviting 
Her,  so  she  strays  down 
By  the  rock  in  the 
Meadow,  where  she  knows 
Harold  is  often 


152  POEMS. 

Seated  for  study, 
Or  to  contemplate 
On  nature's  beauties. 
As  she  approaches, 
Sees  him  there  seated; 
Then  she  knows  certain 
He  has  not  rambled 
This  day  the  mountains ; 
And  her  quick  nature 
Prompts  her  to  ask  him, 
How  are  those  sisters  ? 
Show  her  the  flowers, 
Specimens  rare,  that 
He  has  collected; 
Ask,  if  it  thundered 
On  the  high  mountain, 
And  if  the  maidens 
Frighted  hung  round  him? 
As  hangs  the  ivy 
Round  the  old  oak  tree : 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      153 

If  he  protected; 
But  she  remembered 
That  she  had  sworn  to 
Conquer  that  spirit; 
So  she  approaches 
Careful,  lest  breaking 
In  on  the  student's 
Dream  philosophic, 
She  may  disturb  some 
Thought  worth  preserving. 
He  is  not  mindful 
That  she  is  near  him, 
Till  her  hand  presses 
On  his  pale  forehead; 
For  he  was  sitting 
'Gainst  a  tree,  leaning, 
With  his  hat  lying 
On  the  rock  by  him; 
Closed  were  his  dark  eyes, 
But  when  they  opened, 


154 


POEMS. 

Mary  was  sitting 
Closely  beside  him, 
Mary,  his  Mary; 
For  so  she  told  him 
She  would  one  day  be, 
Ere  they  were  parting; 
And  there  she  told  him 
What  was  her  anguish 
In  the  wild  tempest; 
How  she  was  fearing 
That  she  might  never 
Tell  him  the  story, 
That  she  so  longed  to 
Ere  he  first  asked  it. 
Then  of  the  stranger 
Spoke,  by  whose  coming 
All  were  affrighted ; 
How  he  had  died  there, 
Left  a  strange  paper, 
No  one  was  knowing 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      155 

What  'twas  containing. 
Harold  replying, 
Says,  "we  will  enter 
Now  the  old  cottage, 
For  the  ground  damp  is 
From  the  late  shower; 
We  should  not  linger 
Long  in  the  dampness." 
Happy  they  enter, 
Find  the  old  farmer 
Reading  the  paper. 
It  was  no  stranger 
That  they  had  sheltered, 
But  Mary's  father, 
Unhappy  Walter, 
Whom  they  supposed  dead 
In  a  land  distant. 
He  had  brought  treasures, 
Left  them  for  Mary. 
But  why  does  Harold 


156  POEMS. 

Enter  the  cottage 
Now  it  is  daylight, 
When  the  last  evening 
He  was  so  cautious  ? 
This  is  the  reason : 
"  Mary  no  longer 
Can  keep  her  secret 
Hid  from  grandmother, 
Nor  does  she  care  to." 


157 


CHAPTER      IY. 


«  TIME,  the  tomb  builder/' 
Onward  swift  flying, 
Passes  us  silent, 
Whether  we  heed  his 
Coming  or  going. 
Watch  yonder  hour-glass; 
See  the  sands  running  j 
As  one  grain  falleth, 


158  POEMS. 

Follows  another; 
So  precious  moments 
One  by  one,  stealthy 
Fly  from  our  grasping, 
Bringing  the  long  years ; 
Bearing  the  infant 
Swift  up  to  youth  time, 
Eight  on  to  manhood; 
Sprinkling  the  grey  hairs 
As  a  sad  token, 
That  frost  of  age  is 
Surely  approaching; 
Bringing  the  vision 
Of  the  green  curtained 
Bed  of  the  long  home. 
Man  from  reposing 
In  his  soft  cradle, 
Lies  in  his  coffin. 
Old  age  approaching; 
Rarely  discovers 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      159 

That  the  mind  falters, 
Or  that  the  body 
Is  not  so  powerful 
As  it  was  younger; 
Nor  is  it  strange  that 
Man  should  deceived  be7 
Since  every  year  grows 
Shorter  and  shorter, 
And  one's  whole  lifetime 
Is  but  the  budding, 
Blooming  and  dying 
Of  a  field  flower  : 
"  Like  grass  our  days  are 
And  as  the  glory 
Of  grass  we  perish." 
How  in  so  short  time, 
Can  man  consider 
All  the  strange  changes  ? 
How  become  willing, 
Even  to  own  that 


160  POEMS. 


So  few  short  years  have 
Borne  from  him  manhood, 
Brought  second  childhood? 
Let  a  few  years  pass. 
Look  at  the  cottage, 
Where,  at  our  first  view, 
Grandfather  hale  was, 
Although  his  locks  then 
Wanted  their  dark  hue; 
Now  those  white  locks  gone; 
Only  a  few  stray 
Hairs  in  the  breeze  play 
Round  his  brow  wrinkled. 
Honor  that  bald  head. 
See  his  form  bending; 
He  cannot  follow 
Now  the  straight  furrow. 
See,  his  steps  totter; 
You  can  scarce  hear  him 
When  he  is  coming, 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     161 

So  light  his  foot  fall; 
Only  the  slow  thump 
Of  his  staff  marks  his 
Wearisome  progress. 
Dim  are  his  eyes,  and 
Words  of  affection 
Must  twice  be  spoken 
Ere  he  can  hear  them. 
He  from  whom  neighbors 
Used  to  ask  counsel, 
Now  needs  advising. 
One  hope  remaineth 
Firm  and  unshaken  — 
Hope  of  the  country, 
Where  there  is  no  change; 
When  there  arriving, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of 
Youth  everlasting, 
He  may  forever 
Dwell  with  the  angels. 
11 


162  POEMS, 


And  the  old  man's  mind, 
Feeble  to  reason, 
Still  is  as  strong  as 
Youth,  when  he  prayeth. 
Old  age  has  drawn  him 
Down  to  the  yawning 
Grave,  and  he  waiteth. 
Now  is  the  "  silver 
Cord  "  being  "  loosened," 
"  Golden  bowl  broken," 
"  And  at  the  fountain, 
Broken  the    pitcher, " 
"And  at  the  cistern 
Broken  the    wheel  is  j  " 
"Dust"  is  returning 
"  To  earth  as  it  was," 
And  the  blest  "  spirit 
To  God  who  gave  it ; " 
And  the  old  man  is 
Numbered  on  earth,  with 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     163 

Those  who  are  hidden; 
But  up  in  heaven 
Known  as  an  earth  child, 
Who,  through  the  strife  and 
Cares  of  probation, 
Answered  his  calling 

o/ 

And  was  made  welcome 
To  the  high  portals. 
Oh !  what  a  gloom  was 
Spread  o'er  the  household, 
When  the  grandfather's 
Body  was  carried 
Out  from  the  parlor, 
Under  an  elm  tree  — 
One  of  those  elm  trees 
At  the  four  corners, 
Which  their  broad  shadows 
Throw  o'er  the  low  roof, 
And  was  there  buried. 
Here  in  the  dusk  mkht 


164  POEMS. 

Have  been  seen  seated. 
Bowed  down  with  anguish, 
Grandmother,  Mary, 
Mourning  together; 
Though  Mary's  grief  was 
Deep,  yet  she  mourned  not 
For  the  great  centre 
Of  her  affections, 
As  did  grandmother; 
For  when  the  good  dame 
Saw  that  form  buried, 
Which  she  had  loved  for 
Sixty-five  long  years, 
Then  was  the  fountain 
Of  her  grief  opened; 
And  her  deep  mourning 
Bore  her  on  swiftly 
To  the  same  resting; 
And  all  her  prayer  was, 
"When  it  shall  please  thee, 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.     165 

Merciful  Father, 
Take  me  up  to  him." 
Not  long  she  lingered, 
Ere  the  waves  parted 
That  she  might,  dry  shod, 
Cross  o'er  the  river, 
Stream  of  death,  shutting 
Her  from  her  loved  ones  — 
Parting,  yet  meeting; 
For  on  each  bank  stood 
Friend  forms;  on  this  side, 
Harold  and  Mary 
Bidding  her  "  good  bye ;  " 
On  that  side,  greeting, 
Husband  and  daughter; 
These  were  made  sadder, 
Those  were  made  gladder, 
She  was  the  gainer. 
Now  is  our  Mary 
Almost  heart-broken; 


166  POEMS. 

For  in  the  cottage 

Echo  her  footsteps, 

To  her  mind  seeming 

Like  the  returning 

Footfalls  of  others ; 

Everything  voiceless 

Seems  to  be  saying  — 

"Where  are  the  lost  ones?" 

And  the  old  arm-chair 

Vacant,  inquireth, 

"  Where  is  my  master  ?  " 

And  the  brown  distaff — 

That,  she  has  hidden, 

So  she  may  see  it 

No  more  so  silent. 

But  in  the  twilight 

Ere  Harold  cometh, 

Paying  his  evening 

Visit  to  Mary, 

While  the  old  house-dog 


THE  LOVE  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      167 

Howls  on  the  door  step, 
Then  her  own  shadow 
Frightens  the  maiden; 
And  Harold's  visits, 
Always  so  pleasant, 
Now  she  is  lonely, 
Double  their  value ; 
He  the  sole  object 
Of  her  affections ; 
And  every  parting 
Seems  like  the  tearing 
Of  Mary's  heart-strings. 
Well  Harold  knows  it; 
And  one  bright  evening, 
When  he  was  leaving, 
Asked  Mary,  smiling, 
If  on  the  morrow 
He  might  bring  with  him, 
One  who  would  bless  them, 
Joining  their  right  hands  ? 


168  POEMS. 

And  her  reply  was, 
"Would  he  were  here  now." 
Harold  then  stepping 
Out  at  the  doorway 
Calls  to  one  waiting: 
It  is  the  black  gowned 
Worthy,  whom  Harold 
Bid  there  be  list'ning 
For  such  a  summons. 
Quickly  he  steppeth 
Into  the  kitchen, 
Bids  the  two  lovers, 
Standing  before  him, 
Swear  they  will  ever 
Live  for  each  other; 
Then  bids  the  blessing 
Of  God  be  upon  them, 
And  quickly  leaves  them. 
But  no  more  parting 
Is  at  the  cottage, 


THE  LOVE  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.      169 

Though  the  long  hours  pass, 
And  bright  Aurora 
Lights  up  the  heavens  j 
For  now  is  Harold 
Happy  with  Mary, 
She,  with  her  husband. 
And  the  grandparents 
In  their  graves  sleeping 
Are  not  forgotten; 
For  should  you  enter 
Now  that  old  cottage, 
You  might  hear  Mary 
Telling  her  "Mary," 
"  Love  of  the  Household," 
That,  'neath  the  elm  trees 
Sleep  those  whose  lives  were 
Spent  with  the  view  that 
Heaven  is  above  us. 


PIC-NIC    POEM. 


173 


PIC-NIC     POEM. 


LINES   RECITED   AT   A   GRAND   PIC-NIC. 


IT  was  a  summer  day. 
I  sat  me  down  beside  the  sounding  sea, 
To  watch  its  billows  as  they  rose  and  fell. 
The  ancient  trees  that  shut  the  day-king  out 
Stood  still,  unshaken  by  the  softest  breeze. 
While  seated  there,  in  that  romantic  spot, 
I  thought,  as  any  other  school  boy  would, 
That  I  was  quite  sublime ;  and  oft  I  sighed  — 


174  POEMS. 

Would   from   my  mind   the   muses    snatch   the 

veil, 

And  breathe  a  dreamy  spirit  over  me, 
Give  me  a  glimpse  of  Mount  Parnassus  high, 
And  bid  my  soul  feed  on  ideal  things. 
Would  I  might  tread  some  spot  untrod  by  man: 
Draw  from  its  hiding  place  some  secret  thing : 
Give  birth  to  thoughts  before  unknown  to  me ; 
And  lose  myself  in  dark  immensity. 
Could  I  but  reach  those  fair  Elysian  fields 
Where  poets  gather  laurels  for  the  brow, 
Then     would     my     fondest     dreams     appear, 

portrayed 

In  real  shades;  then  might  I  well  exclaim, 
Disturb  me  not;  far  better  place  me  where 
The  waves  of  some  Tantulian  lake  might  lave 
My  breast;  there  bid  me   thirst;  and  when  I 

fain 

Would  sip  its  waters,  bid  them  all  recede; 
Give  me  to  hunger,  while  the  tempting  vine 


PIC-NIC   POEM.  175 

Hung  o'er  my  head ;  but  should  my  eager  hand 
Be  raised  to  pluck  one  cluster  for  my  food, 
Bid  playful  winds  the  branches  bear  away. 
Do  this ;  aye  more ;  but  steal  not  from  my  gaze 
Poetic  pictures  which  my  fancies  raise. 
As  thus  I  mused  I  slept,  and  sleeping,  dreamed. 
My  dream  I  sing:     Methinks  I  see  e'en  now 
That    cavern,    hollowed    from    the    mountain's 

brow, 

A  wild  recess,  where  winds  are  kept  in  store, 
And  where  in  chains  unruly  tempests  roar. 
Thrust  headlong  down  into  that  dismal  deep, 
A  chamber  where  the  dead  might  fear  to  sleep, 
Was  I;  and  who  can  tell  the  dreadful  chill 
Of  terror,  making  every  heart-string  thrill, 
That  to  my  cheek  froze  every  falling  tear, 
And  filled  my  soul  with  an  unearthly  fear. 
All,  all    was    still  j    a    strange    sight  met    my 

eye; 
One  lone  star  only  broke  the  cloudy  sky, 


176  POEMS. 

Which  brighter  grew,  as  slow  it  seemed  to  fall, 
Leaving  the  heavens  for  this  terrestrial  ball. 
Gently  it  came,  as  though  some  unseen  hand 
Half  loosed,   yet   still    retained   its   fettering 

band; 

Above  my  head  it  staid,  and  by  its  light 
Revealed  the  secrets  of  my  cave  of  night : 
On  either  hand,  a  ghastly  skeleton; 
And  at  my  feet,  a  turbid  streamlet  run; 
Behind  by  back,  coiled  in  a  hideous  pile, 
Foul  toads  and  lizards,  with  the  serpent  vile  j 
Before  my  face,  a  magic  beryl  hung, 
In  which  I  read,  as  to  and  fro  it  swung, 
Scenes  of  this  life,  in  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
Devoid  of  colors,  truthfully  displayed. 
I  saw  a  lawyer,  with  his  client  near, 
For  whom  he  knew  no  hope,  yet  offered  cheer  -r 
He  told  him    that    he    thought   for  still  more 

gold, 
Next  court  he  might  some  new  device  unfold. 


PIC-NIC   POEM.  177 

I  looked  again,  the  lawyer's  conscience  woke ; 
He  made  a  vow,  and  ne'er  that  vow  he  broke, 
No  more  to  plead  a  cause,  unless  the  right 
Was  on  his  side,  then  plead  with  all  his  might. 
By  this,  I  knew  one  might,  (though  so  few  can) 
Practice  at  law  and  live  an  honest  man. 
I  saw  two  parsons;  one  was  called  of  God; 
The  other  called,  but  by  some  other  nod. 
The  last  looked  solemn  in  his  suit  of  black, 
Sins  not  his  own  seemed  resting  on  his  back, 
And  people  thought,  because  he  never  smiled, 
His  heart  was  right,  his  garments  undefiled; 
But  when  they  found  he'd  left  in  their  array, 
Their  purses  stole,  they  wished  he'd  staid  away. 
The  man  of  God  put  on  no  extra  airs, 
Nor    filled    the   highways    with    his     lengthy 

prayers ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  people  led  astray, 
Proclaimed   the   threatening  of  the  judgment 

day; 

12 


178  POEMS. 

And  to  the  soul  who  from  his  sins  would  cease, 
He  pointed  out  the  endless  paths  of  peace. 
Next  viewed  a  doctor,  whom  the  people  said 
Oft  would  not  suffer  that  the  sleeping  dead 
Should  hold  in  peace   their   claim   within  the 

ground, 

But  dug  them  up,  to  see  what  might  be  found : 
They  called  this  horrid,  yet   thought   he  must 

know 

Where  every  bone  and  sinew  ought  to  go; 
And  if  he  chanced  to  make  a  slight  mistake, 
The  poor  man's  life  and  honor  were  at  stake. 
They  little  thought  what  he  must  undergo 
To  learn  what  they  thought  he  of  course  must 

know. 

And  next  a  teacher  —  how  unearthly  white 
His  brow  appeared,  within  that  beryl  bright; 
His  cheek   was   wan,  his   dark  eye  fierce  and 

wild, 
His  nerves  unstrung,  his  disposition  riled; 


PIC-NIC  POEM.  179 

His  very  look,  with  terror  ought  to  strike 
The  hundred  boys,  where  no  two  are  alike; 
But  no;  my  father  told  me  not  to  mind 
Unless  I  pleased ;   and  I'm  not  much  inclined, 
Says  one;  another,  that  his  parents  say 
When  teachers  scold  'tis  time  to  run  away. 
Yes,  even  then  within  his  trembling  hands 
He  held  a  note ;  the  writer  there  demands 
Redress;  his  little  son  has  been  abused, 
For    trifling    things   which   should    have    been 

excused. 

What  matter  though  he  hid  the  master's  hat  ? 
That  man's  a  brute  who  would  reprove  for  that ; 
And  should  he  not  reform,  will  sure  receive 
A  gentle  hint  that  he  had  better  leave. 
Next  came  a  student,  with  his  books  in  hand, 
Deep  in  the  mysteries  of  some  foreign  land, 
With  brain    half   crazed,  and  pulses    beating 

sore, 
Eager  to  drink  in  draughts  of  classic  lore; 


180  POEMS. 

The  angles  which  he  'learned  were  less  obtuse 
Than  his  ideas  of  being  fine  and  spruce  j 
And    the     Greek    verbs,    though    knotty,    ill 

compare 
With  what   was   knotted  worse  —  his  tangled 

hair. 

The  people  called  him  worthless ;  and  all  said 
Some  day  or  other  he  would  beg  his  bread. 
"The  youth  is  lazy,"  half  the  town  exclaims; 
As  though  it  was  not  work  to  use  one's  brains. 
"  Oh  !  what  extravagance"  the  neighbors  say, 
"A  poor  man's  son  at  school  from  day  to  day" 
And  't  was  observed,  at  last,  by  one  old  maid  — 
She  wondered  that  he  did  not  learn  a  trade. 
The  student  heeded  notj  I  saw  him  gain 
The  prize  he  long  had  striven  to  obtain,* 
And  when  his  former  foes  beheld  his  fame, 
Why  then — they  always  knew  he'd  win  a  name. 
Then  came  a  man  who  by  fair  means  had  made 
A  fortune  large,  for  well  his  plans  had  laid. 


PIC-NIC  POEM.  181 

He  watched  the  signs  to  see  who  next  would 

fail, 

And  was  secure  before  the  auction  sale. 
This  caused  a  murm'ring  'mong  the  financiers 
Of  talents  less;  and  to  the  rich  man's  ears 
Came   strange    reports;  they  wondered   much 

the  more 

That  knavery  had  not  shown  its  head  before. 
They  called   him   "rascal,"    and   still   harder 

names ; 
"  His  wealth  could  ne'er  have  come  by  honest 

gains." 

The  rabble  turned  away,  and  would  not  speak 
Unless  there  was  a  favor  they  might  seek; 
But   if  they    had    some    great    plan    to    put 

through, 
'Which  well  they  knew  themselves    they  could 

not  do, 

This  blackleg,  then,  became  a  saint  of  light, 
And  nothing  he  could  do  but  what  was  right. 


182  POEMS. 

A  man  appeared,  poor  both  in  purse  and  health. 
And  he  was    scorned   by  those    who    boasted 

wealth. 

His  wife  was  called  extravagant;  the  cause 
Was,  that  folks  lie  the  fastest  picking  flaws; 
And  then,  perhaps,  she  had  so  fair  a  face, 
That  it  might  well  a  rich  man's  parlor  grace ; 
And   all   must   own   when   envy's    fire   burns 

bright, 

'T  will  not  expire  for  sake  of  doing  right. 
Another  class,  one  of  the  kind  who  rise 
For  the  same  reason  that  another  dies. 
The  only  way  that  they  can  higher  go, 
Is  treading  down  their  neighbors  next  below; 
Root  out  the    schemes,  the    people  once  have 

loved, 

Bring  in  their  own,  and  set  them  far  above. 
Next  came  a  butcher,  with  his  cart-top  white ; 
His  saw  and   cleaver  in  their    sheaths   shone 

bright ; 


PIC-NIC   POEM.  183 

With  joints  and  sirloins  of  most  any  weight, 
The  man  of  flesh  could  all  accommodate ! 
One    would   suppose,   since    mankind   love   to 

eat, 
They'd   love    the    man   who   peddled   out  the 

meat; 

But  if,  forsooth,  his  sausages  were  cheap, 
The    foul-tongued    slanderer    saw    not    fit  to 

sleep ; 

But  with  a  slur  remarked,  that  sometimes  dogs 
In  equal  flesh,  would  cost  far  less  that  hogs. 
I  saw  a  woman,  whose  supreme  delight 
Was  in  a  kind  of  linguadental  fight  ; 
And  if  she  was  not  in  some  kind  of  row, 
Would  force  you  to  combat  her  any  how; 
And  if  in  manners  you  should  chance  to  call 
On  her,  she  straightway  would  begin  a  brawl ; 
No  matter  if  you  did  not  chance  to  know 
When   used   polite,    she    would    not   let   you 

go- 


184  POEMS. 

I  saw  her  to  a  foolish  fellow  speak; 

He  heard  her  through,  most  modestly  and  meek, 

And  wond'ring  all  the   while    how  dogs  could 

eat 

Old  Jezebel,  or  putrefying  meat. 
I  saw  a  maiden  who  was  wond'rous  fair, 
Eyes  heavenly  blue,  with  wealth  of  raven  hair, 
And  such  a  form  as  artist  could  not  paint, 
With  mind  and  disposition  of  a  saint. 
And  yet  beside  her  stood  a  rival  miss, 
Who  would  not  listen  to  a  word  like  this. 
Said  she  was  plain,  and  most  distressing  proud, 
As  though  she   thought    among   the  handsome 

crowd 

Of  village  girls,  she  was  the  only  flower, 
The  very  rose-bud  of  this  earthly  bower. 
But  what  appeared  most  to  her  rival  strange, 
That  any  fellow  who  had  power  to  range 
'Mong  all  the  girls,  should  show  so  little  mind 
As  love  this  one  and  leave  the  rest  behind. 


PIC-NIC  POEM.  185 

I  saw  a  couple  who  for  money  wed; 
Each  wished  the  other  or  their  own  self  dead ; 
Parents  that  told  their  daughter  whom  to  love, 
Or    whom   to    hate,    as  though    some    power 

above 
Had  placed  at  their  command  their  daughter's 

mind, 
Which  at   their  pleasure  they  might  loose  or 

bind. 

They  saw  the  tear-drop  moisten  oft  her  eye, 
And  heard  her  sighing  for  the  time  to  die; 
And  when  they  saw  her  going  to  the  tomb, 
They  knew  what  frost  had   nipped    the  early 

bloom. 

And  last,  of  all  the  sights  that  did  appear, 
Was  a  "Grand  Pic-Nic"  and  from  far  and  near, 
The  people  came,  in  different  dress  arrayed, 
Of  different  minds,  of  every  sort  and  shade; 
Of  this  mixed  throng,  two  classes  seemed  to  be, 
The  stingy  ones  and  those  of  money  free ; 


186  POEMS. 

The  stingy  ones  at  length,  in  rays  I  saw, 
A  sight  so  sad  from  any  eye  might  draw 
Tears,  bitter  tears,  unless  they  were  like  mine 
Directed  to  the  lib'ral,  gen'rous  kind; 
For  in  my  vision  did  the  magic  stone 
Burst,  and  its  fragments  one  by  one, 
Transformed  to  diamonds,  on  the  bosoms  fall 
Of  those  who  money  brought  and  spent  it  all. 

Here  ends  my  dream;  for    buzzing   round  me 

thick, 

Mosquitoes  flew;  I  woke  and  seized  a  stick; 
And  when  I  drove  the  insects  from  my  bed, 
I  found  with  them,  my  muse  had  also  fled. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


189 


JOHN    ANDRE. 


'T  is  evening  hour :  the  moon's  pale  light 
Falls  on  the  Briton's  paler  brow, 

Bright  sunshine  yields  to  stilly  night, 
The  owl  begins  her  night-song  now. 

Still  mounted  on  his  warlike  steed, 
Sits  Andre,  dreaming  of  the  past, 

And  musing  on  that  last  dark  deed, 
He  wishes  night  might  ever  last. 


190  POEMS. 

No  sleep  for  him  who  feels  the  dread 
That  guilt  or  danger  always  brings; 

Alas,  the  fatal  words  are  said, 

And  "treason"  on  the  night  air  rings. 

That  fatal  paper,  too,  he  bears  ; 

That  paper  dyed  in  sin  and  shame; 
Traced  on  its  darkened  face  it  wears 

The  hateful,  trait'rous  Arnold's  name. 

The  morning  comes,  he  seeks  a  spring 
Where  he  may  slake  his  burning  thirst; 

Among  the  trees  the  linnets  sing, 
As  happy  as  they  sung  when  first 

They  saw  the  sun  o'er  Eden  rise, 

When  earth  was  young,  and  time  began, 

And  'mid  the  flowers  of  Paradise 

They  hovered  'round  the  first-born  man. 


JOHN  ANDRE.  191 

But  hark !  the  sound  of  coming  feet, 
And  Andre's  cheek  becomes  more  pale ; 

Now  Briton  haste  thy  fate  to  meet; 
Let  not  a  soldier's  courage  fail. 

They  ask  his  name.  Will  he  deny 
His  flag,  his  country,  and  his  king? 

Yes;  for  base  soldiers  fear  to  die; 
Death  to  the  good  no  harm  can  bring. 

"  That  broad,  pale  forehead's  look  of  pride," 
Is  hidden  by  the  veil  of  shame; 

Up  to  his  brow  the  crimson  tide 
Mounts,  as  he  feigns  another's  name. 

Oh,  Andre !  thou  canst  not  deceive 
The  patriot  gaze  that  falls  on  thee; 

'T  were  open  madness  to  believe 
Thyself  from  dread  suspicion  free. 


192  POEMS. 

The  blush,  the  voice,  the  downcast  eye 
Are  volumes  speaking  thy  disgrace; 

All  hope  is  gone,  and  thou  must  die, 
And  cause  thy  sire  to  hide  his  face 

In  shame  for  thee;  and  bid  the  tears 

Course  down  thy  mother's  withered  cheek, 

As  once  they  did,  when,  free  from  fears, 
You  vowed  a  soldier's  life  to  seek. 

The  guilt  is  known;  for  now  behold 

That  scroll,  bound  by  the  traitor's  seals, 

Though  archly  hid,  is  found,  unrolled; 
Dismounting  Andre  humbly  kneels, 

And  begs  his  captors  to  forgive; 

"  Abroad  let  not  the  tale  be  told ; 
I  cannot  die !  0,  let  me  live ! 

I  pledge  the  wealth  of  gems  and  gold." 


JOHN   ANDEE.  193 

"  This  diamond  ring,  this  watch  is  thine, 
My  horse,  proud,  fleeting  as  the  deer: 

This  cursed  paper  I'll  resign, 

But  tell  them  not  who  brought  it  here." 

"Put  up  thy  bribes,  thou  fallen  man; 

For  judgment,  death  await  thee  now; 
No  more  shall  England's  breezes  fan, 

Or  zephyrs  kiss  thy  sin-stained  brow." 

Again  he  prays;  he  prays  that  he  may  die 
Not  as  a  dog,  but  as  a  soldier,  lie 
Pierced  with  the  bullet  or  the  shining  blade, 
And  <jlad  with  martial  dress,  in  dust  be  laid. 

But  no !  Death  must  embrace  him  on  the  tree, 
A  warning  dire  to  soldiers  such  as  he; 
The  rope  make  ready,  and  the  noose  prepare 
Let  strains  of  plaintive  music  rend  the  air, 

13 


194  POEMS. 

Once  more  he  spoke,  and  to  a  comrade  said, 
"Tell  England's  sons  that  Andre  now  is  dead. 
Oh !  tell  my  father,  though  I  stained  his  name, 
I  was  unmoved  when  death  and  vengeance  came. 

"  Oh !  tell  my  mother  never  more  to  weep, 
Although  her  child  so  far  away  must  sleep  j 
I  never  more  can  grieve  her  gentle  breast 
When  'neath  the  cold  and  icy  clods  I  rest. 

"  And  there's  another,  whose  bright  eye  will  fill 
When  I  am  dead ;  tell  her  I  loved  her  still  -y 
And  ever  will,  though  sleeping  in  the  grave, 
Her  guardian  be,  her  feet  from  snares  to  save. 

"  Good  by :  my  bed  is  ready,  I  must  sleep : 
Tell  all  the  dear  ones  not  for  me  to  weep; 
Now  come,  0  Death!  My  sins,  Great  God 

forgive, 
Pardon  and  cleanse,  and  fit  with  Thee  to  live." 


195 


ELEGIAC    LINES 


ON   THE  DEATH  OP  TWO  YOUNG  FRIENDS  IN  P. 


MY  heart  is  swelling  with  its  flood  of  grief; 
My  eyes  grow  dim,  and  tears  bedew  the  page ; 
For  gloomy  thoughts  break  in  upon  the  mind, 
Thoughts    of   the    loved    who    now   in    death 

repose, 

Borne  from  my  sight,  to  rest  within  the  grave, 
Hid  from  the  sunlight  of  the  pleasant  day, 
Shut  up  alone  beneath  the  cold,  cold  stone. 


196  POEMS. 

I  see  thee,  Mira,  as  I  saw  thee  when 

Thy  cheek  was  wan,  thy  pulses  faint  and  few, 

And  when  the  tide  of  life  was  ebbing  slow: 

Faint,  like  a  dove,  when  weary  in  its  course, 

Crushed  like  a  flower  'neath  a  careless  tread, 

Or  like  a  bud  nipped  by  untimely  frost. 

Since  then  have  come  the  angels  to  conduct 

Thy  spirit  to  its  happy  home  above. 

The  vale  of  death  before  thee  opened  wide, 

It  was  not  dark  to  thee,  for  He  who  made 

The  sun,  shone  there  so   bright    that    all  was 

light. 

To  thee  was  given  by  faith  to  view  the  crown, 
Held  out  to  thee,  among  the  radiant  stars : 
I  know  that  thou  art  sleeping  in  the  dust; 
But,  Howard,  is  it  true  that  thou  art  gone? 
I  never  saw  thee  when  disease  had  lain 
His  heavy  hand  upon  thy  manly  form; 
When  last  I  saw,  thy  voice  rang  clear  in  song, 
Bright  was  thine  eye,  and  active  ev'ry  limb. 


ELEGIAC  LINES.  197 

They  tell  me  thou  art  sleeping  with  the  dead : 
I  weep,  and  cannot  have  it  so :  shall  I 
Ne'er  clasp  again,  with  thee,  the  friendly  hand  ? 
Or  join  with  thee  to  raise  the  sacred  hymn, 
On  earth?   No,  ne'er  again;  but  in  "  the  realm 
Where  angels  have  their  birth,"  there  may  we 

sing. 

Oh  cruel  Death !  't  is  thy  delight  to  mark 
The  fairest    forms,  and    pluck    them  for  thine 

own; 
The    ones    we    fain    would    keep  in  chains  of 

love, 
Pierced    by    thy    darts,    are    hurried    to    the 

grave, 
Those  shining  marks   that   most   proclaim  thy 

power, 

Are  stricken  by  thy  ruthless,  tyrant  hand. 
But  God  is  in  it :  why  should  I  repine  ? 
His  hand  directs  afflictions  for  our  good: 
He  bids  us  mourn  that  we  may  see  how  frail 


198  POEMS. 

These  bodies  are,  and  bids  us  to  prepare 
When   he  shall    call,   with    cheerful    steps    to 

go, 
Trusting  in  Him  "who  doeth  all  things  well." 


199 


TECUMSEH. 


When  Gen.  Harrison  was  in  council  with  this  distin 
guished  man,  he  thus  addressed  him  :  "  Sit  on  yonder 
seat,  which  your  white  father  has  prepared  for  you."  Te- 
cumseh,  prompted  by  a  spirit  free  as  the  wind,  replied, 
"  You  my  father?  No,  the  sun  is  my  father,  the  earth  my 
mother,  and  I  will  not  rest  till  I  repose  on  her  bosom. 

W.  R. 

THE  war-whoop  is  hushed  over  forest  and  hill; 
The  hum  of  thy  council  forever  is  still ; 
And  now,  lying  dead  in  thy  "  mother's  embrace/' 
Thou  mayest  repose  with  the  last  of  thy  race. 


200  POEMS. 

Thy  vow  was  well  kept,  standing  ready  to  take 
The  life  of  thy  foe,  a  new  conquest  to  make  ; 
To  add  one  more  scalp  to  the  badge  of  thy  fame, 
Was  the  hope  of  each  hour,  the  labor  and  aim. 

Thy  heart  beats  no  more,  for  the  warrior  has  fled 
To  fair  hunting  grounds,  in  the  realms  of  the 

dead; 
Where  white  man   comes    not,  but  sable  sons 

reign, 
Reign    monarchs    supreme,    in     their     ghostly 

domain. 

Rest  on,  brave  Tecumseh !  thy  battles  are  o'er, 
The  gleam  of  thy  steel    frights    the  pale  face 

no  more, 
And  thy  father,   the    sun,  proudly  views    from 

on  high, 
That,    fighting   for    country  and    friends,  thou 

didst  die. 


201 


TO     ROVER. 


ROVER,  when  a  little  boy, 
I  was  almost  wild  with  joy, 
As  one  pleasant  summer  night, 
I  received  you,  puppy  white, 
Marked  with  spots  of  shining  black, 
On  your  ears  and  on  your  back. 
I  remember  how  you  cried, 
Taken  from  your  mother's  side ; 


202  POEMS. 

Softly  covered  in  my  bed, 
Hearing  you,  my  young  heart  bled; 
And  I  planned  that  you  might  be 
Sleeping  snug  and  warm  with  me ; 
So  to  end  the  childish  freak, 
Rose,  your  little  nest  to  seek; 
Took  you,  trembling,  to  my  bed, 
On  the  pillow  laid  your  head, 
And  at  morn,  your  puppy  nose 
Woke  me  pulling  off  the  clothes. 
Then  I  learned  you  how  to  speak 
"Bow-wow,"  for  your  food;  and  seek 
For  the  ball  the  boys  at  play 
Carelessly  had  thrown  away; 
And  I  learned  you  how  to  catch 
Woodchucks  in  the  garden  patch, 
Where  they  often  came  to  eat 
Beans  and  three-leaved  clover  sweet. 
Well  I  know  thy  doggish  brain 
Mem'ries  may  for  years  contain, 


TO   HOVER. 

And  I  wish  that  thou  could st  tell 
All  the  thoughts  that  therein  dwell. 
To  my  questions  your  reply, 
Wagging  tail,  and  bright'ning  eye, 
Though  I  understand  that  well, 
Still  thou  hast  no  way  to  tell 
If  thou  hast  forgotten  quite, 
One  who  fed  thee  morn  and  night; 
Grandmama,  who  loved  me  so 
That  she  feared  to  let  me  go 
From  her  sight,  loved  thee  so  well. 
That  she  bid  me  never  sell. 
For  the  love  I  bear  the  dead, 
While  I  have  a  loaf  of  bread, 
You  shall  ever  share  the  crust, 
And  when  dead,  as  die  you  must, 
If  on  earth  I  then  remain, 
None  shall  ere  thy  dust  profane; 
But  shall  rest  beneath  the  shade 
Of  the  trees  where  we  have  played. 


203 


204  POEMS. 

Thou  art  now  grown  weak  and  old, 

Faithful  Kove  !  and  I  am  told 

Often,  since  thou  art  so  lame, 

I  deserve  a  deal  of  blame 

That  I  do  not  have  thee  slain, 

End  thy  sorrows  and  thy  pain; 

But  would  those  who  thus  reprove, 

So  be  changed  to  those  they  love  ? 

Would  they  kill  an  aged  friend, 

Who  had  no  more  strength  to  spend 

•In  their  service;  or  befriend, 

Care  for  them,  as  I  for  thee? 

If  not  let  them  learn  of  me. 

Rover !  I  have  penned  for  thee 

"  Dogg'rel  rhyme  ;  "  a  "  bone  "  would  be 

Doubtless  to  thy  canine  eye 

Better  gift,  "  not  half  so  dry," 

Bigger  dogs  than  you  reply. 


205 


*)*     . 
,«" 

^ 


, 


THE     WITHERED     BOUQUET 


BEAUTIFUL  flowers  1 
Why  should  I  love  you  so  ? 

In  the  green  bowers 
Lovlier,  fairer  grow; 
Withered  and  colorless, 

Faded  and  dead, 
Why  should  I  love  you  so  ? 


206  POEMS. 

Perishing  flowers ! 
Thou  a  memento  art; 

Speaking  of  hours 
Dear  to  my  throbbing  heart; 
Silently  eloquent, 

Speaking,  though  dead, 
Thou  a  memento  art. 

Twice  has  the  spring  past 
Since  thou  wert  given  me; 

Will  thy  perfume  last 
Long  as  I  cherish  thee  ? 
Thou  hast  been  carefully 

Treasured  away, 
Since  thou  wert  given  me. 

Gift  of  a  maiden, 
All  the  whole  world  to  me: 

Art  thou  not  laden 
With  the  same  parity? 


THE   WITHERED   BOUQUET.  207 

Yes,  for  thy  language  is 

Breathing  the  same, 
All  the  whole  world  to  me. 


208 


THE     FOREST     GRAVES. 


WHERE  the  clear  waters  of  a  winding  stream 
Flow  down  to  mingle  with  the  salt  sea  foam, 

There  is  a  grove,  which  e'er  to  me  will  seem 
A  sacred  spot,  wherever  I  may  roam. 

A  sacred  place,  for  'neath  the  oak  tree's  shade, 
That  like  a  curtain  green  is  spread  around, 

The  forest  sons  their  resting  place  have  made, 
Aweary  of  this  earthly  hunting  ground. 


THE   FOREST   GRAVES.  209 

Their  names  forgotten  are:   no  monument 
Was  reared  to  tell  the  careless  passers  by, 

Above  whose  ashes  they  perchance  have  bent, 
To  cull  the  flowers  that  there  profusely  lie. 

Oft   have    I    wished,   while    wand'ring    'mong 
those  trees, 

In  summer  evening's  silent,  starry  hour, 
The  red  man's  spirit  on  the  murm'ring  breeze, 

Might  come  to  me,  within  that  quiet  bower, 

And  tell  me  who  are  sleeping  there  so  still, 
And  what  the  fortunes  were  of  those  so  brave ; 

Though  spectres  come  not,  yet  my  fancy  will 
Call  up  a  form  from  every  moss-grown  grave. 

Beneath  this  mound  the  Chieftain  takes  his  rest, 
His  sceptre  rude  is  lying  by  his  side, 

His  wampum  belt  is  wound  about  his  breast, 
His  bear-skin  mantle  on,  as  when  he  died. 

14 


210  POEMS. 

Around  him  sleep  the  warriors  he  had  led, 
To  the  avenging  war  with  savage  pride; 

A  bow  and  quiver  rots  beneath  each  head, 
A  spear  and  battle-axe  by  every  side. 

Beneath  that  mound  the  Powow  sleeps  in  death, 

Magician,  priest,  the  pride  and  nation's  love, 

Disclosed  their  future  fate,  returned  his  breath 

To  him  who  gave,  the  Powow  great,  above. 

I 

Perchance  he  saw,  while  looking  through  the  veil 
That  hid  the  scene,  ,a  pale-faced  stranger  band 

Give  to  the  eastern  breeze  the  snowy  sail, 
To  seek  a  home  within  this  Western  land; 

But  he  was  sleeping  with  his  fathers,  long 
Before  they  came  the  red  man's  land  to  claim,  , 

Hushed  was  the  music  of  his  fun'ral  song, 
And  cold  the  ashes  of  his  fun'ral  flame. 


THE   FOREST   GRAVES.  211 

The  Chieftain,  warrior  and  soothsayer  bold 
Have  gone,  where  now  it  grieves  them  not 
to  see 

The  white  man  rear  his  cottage,  where  of  old 
Their  council  fires  and  wigwams  used  to  be. 


212 


NOX    INCUBAT  MARI. 


NIGHT,  like  a  bird  of  omen  ill, 
Is  brooding  o'er  the  deep; 

The  stars,  subserv'ent  to  the  will 
That  bids  them  shine,  still  keep 

Their  silent  watching  over  me, 

A  wand'rer  on  the  foaming  sea. 


NOX   INCUBAT   MARL  213 

The  northern  constellations  wear 

The  impress  of  the  hand, 
That  to  the  pole-star  chained  the  "  Bear," 

And  formed  "  Arcturus  "  grand; 
And  when  no  other  power  was  nigh 
Hung  stars  as  bright  in  southern  sky. 

The  same  blue  canopy  above 

O'erhangs  the  quiet  home, 
Where  now  repose  the  ones  I  love, 

While  far  from  them  I  roam ; 
Sweet  sleep  has  closed  each  gentle  eye, 
But  mine  still  watching  sea  and  sky. 

The  light  of  yonder  rising  moon 

Falls  on  the  mossy  seat, 
Where  I  received  this  precious  boon 

From  one  who  came  to  meet, 
This  raven  curl,  a  boon  of  love 
From  one  who  now  is  crowned  above. 


214  POEMS. 

This  silver  light  bedecks  the  stone 
That  marks  her  lowly  bed; 

She  feared  at  eve  if  left  alone, 
And  will  she  not  though  dead? 

Soon  will  they  lay  me  by  the  side 

Of  her  who  was  to  be  my  bride. 

Blow,  gentle  breeze;  the  snowy  sail 

Is  ready  set  for  thee; 
Bear  me  along  that  I  may  hail 

The  only  home  for  me; 
That  friendly  hands  may  make  my  bed, 
And  watch  me  sleeping  with  the  dead. 


The  breezes  listened  to  the  song, 
They  bore  the  sailor's  barque  along; 
But  ere  the  wished  for  shore  drew  nigh, 
The  wand'rer  pale  in  death  did  lie; 


NOX   INCUBAT   MAKI. 


215 


And,  buried  in  the  foaming  deep, 
He  takes  his  last  and  longest  sleep; 
He  resteth  not  beside  his  love, 
Winds  roar,  and*  mad  waves  roll  above. 


216 


« 
LENA     MAY, 

OR   THE   WRECK   OF    THE   FISHER-BOY. 


"Pis  midnight,  and  the  restless  wind 

Shrieks  like  an  eagle,  when  her  young  are  torn 

From  out  the  eyrie,  and  the  clouds 

Seem  from  the  horrid  pit  of  darkness  borne. 

As  rising  o'er  the  mountain's  top, 

They  hurl  their  contents  on  the  world  below  ; 
The  thunder,  lightning  and  the  rain 

Which  louder,  brighter,  more  terrific  grow. 


LENA  MAY.  217 

The  lake,  whose  surface  was  at  noon 

Unbroke,  save   when    the    swallows    dipped 

their  wings, 
Now  like  old  ocean  madly  roars, 

And  far    around    its    sheets    of  white  foam 
flings. 

In  such  a  war  of  elements, 

Oh !  who  would  dare  stand  on  that  troubled 

shore  ? 
When  earth  itself  seemed  terrified, 

Should    not    a    helpless    maiden    fear    still 
more  ? 

So  would  it  seem ;  but  Lena  May 

Now  strives  to    pierce    the  deep,  the  thick- 

'ning  gloom, 
Although  the  waves  that  'round  her  roll 

Almost  engulf  her  in  a  wat'ry  tomb. 


218  POEMS. 

She  dares  the  blast;  why  does  she  so? 

For  what  does  fearless  Lena's  bosom  yearn  ? 
Across  the  lake,  her  Fisher-boy 

Has  gone,  and  here  she  waits  for  his  return. 

And  vainly  too,  for  ne'er  again 

Will  meet  his  gaze,  return  his  fond  caress, 
Hear  of  his  love,  his  whispered  vows, 

No  more  the  Fisher-boy  will  Lena  bless. 

But  now,  at  last,  the  storm  has  ceased, 

The    struggling    moon    looks     through    the 
cloudy  veil, 

The  thunder 's  hushed,  the  winds  are  still, 
No  sound  is  heard.     Fair  Lena  sees  no  sail. 

She  wanders  o'er  the  pebbled  shore  — 

Heavens !   is  not  this   the    form    she  wildly 

sought  ? 
Ah  yes !  her  Fisher-boy  is  found. 

What    now    is    life    to    heart-broke  Lena? 
Naught ! 


LENA   MAY. 


219 


She  kneels  before  his  lifeless  clay, 

Her  words  are  wild,  and  wildly  glares  her 

eye, 

She  smooths  the  locks  from  off  his  brow, 
Then  bows  her  head  upon  him,  there  to  die. 


220 


THE     VOYAGE     OF     LIFE 


YOUTH 


ON  the  winding  stream  of  lifetime, 
Youth  begins  his  voyage  romantic, 
In  a  boat  fantastic  sailing, 
With  its  pennon  gaily  flying, 
With  the  breeze  its  white  sail  filling, 
Breezes  from  the  misty  islands, 
From  the  looked  for  isles  of  pleasure ; 
As  he  floats  he  ^hears  the  ripple, 


THE   VOYAGE    OF    LIFE.  221 

Dainty  ripple  of  the  wavelet, 
And  he  thinks  the  shore  draws  nearer. 
Sees  a  bubble  on  the  surface, 
And  he  grasps  the  air-born  bubble, 
Thinking  he  has  found  a  treasure ; 
When  he  opes  his  hand  to  view  it, 
Finds  it  only  running  water. 
Sees  a  speck  upon  the  blue  sky, 
Sees  in  air  the  sea-gull  flying, 
Hears  the  sea-gull  loudly  shrieking, 
And  he  thinks  it  is  an  eagle, 
A  fierce  eagle  mad  for   plunder, 
Or  some  bird  of  dreadful  omen, 
And  the  youth  is  terror  stricken, 
Frightened  by  a  harmless  sea-gull. 
Sees  a  cloud  rise  from  the  westward, 
Sees  a  dark  cloud  span  the  heavens, 
Dark  and  thick,  and  fast  arising, 
And  he  thinks  it  is  an  angel 
Coming  swift  to  seize  his  frail  bark, 


222  POEMS. 

Leave  him  struggling  with  the  water; 
But  when  drops  of  rain  are  falling, 
Holds  his  hands  to  catch  the  rain  drops, 
Thinks  the  cloud  a  jetty  casket, 
And  the  rain  drops  falling  diamonds; 
But  one  dashing  on  his  eyelid, 
Thinks  again  it  is  an  angel, 
Thinks  it  is  an  angel  weeping. 
Thus  the  youth  in  boat  fantastic, 
Sailing  down  the  stream  of  lifetime, 
Spends  the  hours  in  castle  building, 
And  in  scenes  of  the  ideal, 
Yain  as  grasping  floating  bubbles, 
Or  as  fearing  screaming  sea-gulls, 
Making  clouds  appear  like  angels, 
And  the  rain-drops  falling  diamonds, 
Or  like  tears  of  weeping  angels. 


THE  VOYAGE   OP   LIFE.  223 


MANHOOD. 


ON  the  winding  stream  of  lifetime, 
Manhood  sails  in  lofty  frigate, 
Guarded  by  the  well- wrought  cable, 
With  the  anchor  and  the  life  boat, 
And  he  trusts  not  idle  dreaming 
But  he  studies  well  the  compass, 
Watches  for  the  hidden  sand  bar, 
For  the  frowning  rock  and  lee  shore, 
For  the  lee  shore  and  the  breakers, 
Till  he  sees  a  galley  floating, 
With  its  oars  of  gold  and  silver, 
And  its  oar-locks  pearl  and  jasper, 
And  its  awnings  silk  and  purple, 
And  the  galley's  name  is  beauty; 
Woman  is  its  fair  commander. 
Then  the  rudder  bands  are  loosened, 


224  POEMS. 

Of  the  frigate  and  each  sail  set, 
Every  sail  with  hope  gales  filling, 
Till  it  nears  the  witching  galley; 
Then  his  ears  are  filled  with  music, 
And  his  mind  with  idle  dreaming, 
And  he  studies  not  the  compass, 
Close  pursues  the  galley,  beauty, 
Heedless  quite  of  rocks  and  sand  bars, 
Till  the  galley  close  beside  him, 
Yields  herself  a  willing  pris'ner; 
Then  with  cords  and  cables  bound  fast, 
Down  life's  tide  together  sailing, 
On  all  sides  perchance  surrounded 
By  those  little  boats  fantastic, 
Boats  in  which  the  young  are  sailing, 
Down  the  winding  stream  of  lifetime. 


THE   VOYAGE    OF    LIFE.  225 


OLD      AGE . 

ON  the  winding  stream  of  lifetime, 
Old  age  floats  in  ship  well  shattered, 
Shattered  by  the  howling  winds'  wrath, 
By  the  blasts  of  disappointment, 
By  the  rude  gales  of  affliction, 
Sails  are  hanging  torn  and  tattered, 
Broken  masts  are  falling  downward, 
Anchors,  chains,  by  rust  are  eaten, 
And  the  hull  once  gaily  painted, 
Now  has  dingy  grown  by  wearing, 
By  the  ice  of  eighty  winters, 
By  the  suns  of  eighty  summers  j/ 
And  the  rudder  rudely  broken, 
Turns  not,  though  the  feeble  helmsman 
Labors  at  the  rotten   tiller, 
And  the  ship  has  ceased  its  sailing, 
Only  moves  as  by  the  waves  borne, 

14 


226  POEMS. 

Only  as  the  running  stream  flows; 
And  at  last  the  old  ship  founders, 
And  the  rotten  planks  are  floating; 
Still  the  oaken  ribs  and  keelson 
Show  that  once  a  ship  was  builded, 
And,  perchance  among  the  ruins, 
Ruins  of  this  earth  production, 
You  may  still  discern  the  spirit 
Of  the  ancient  brave  commander, 
Ling'ring  in  this  wreck  of  sea-craft, 
'Mong  the  broken  ribs  and  keelson, 
Till  the  wreck  shall  sink  forever     \ 
In  the  winding  stream  of  lifetime. 


227 


THE     CRUCIFIXION. 


THE  mountains  hide  the  sun  from  Galilee, 
And  Jewish  maidens  gazing  on  the  sea, 
Yiew  mirrored  stars  in  every  babbling  wave, 
That  onward  rolls  the  pebbly  bank  to  lave. 

How  sweetly  still !     The  winds  are  hushed  to 

rest, 

And  earth  seems  sleeping  on  its  Maker's  breast, 
Secure  beneath  the  watch-care  of  that  God, 
Who  hung  in  space,  and  governs  by  his  nod. 


228  POEMS. 

The  day  has  passed,  and  evening's  solemn  hour 
That  shuts  the  petals  of  the  day-time  flower, 
Bids  mortal  eyes  in  balmy  sleep  to  close, 
And  weary  ones  to  court  a  night's  repose. 

But  one  there^is  whose  soul  is  filled  with  grief, 
Not  joyous  scene,  nor  sleep,  may  yield  relief, 
With  chosen  friends  in  the  still  garden  strays, 
There  bids  them  watch,  and  to  his  Father  prays. 

Prays  with  a  voice  while  prostrate  on  the  sod, 
That  melts  the  heart,  and  bows  the  ear  of  God : 
Gethsemane,  where  soft  the  moon-beams  play, 
Drinks  up  his  tears,  and  hears  the  Saviour  pray. 

God,  who  from  Teman  came,  will  he  not  spare 
The  son,  who  holds  with  him  an  equal  share 
In  all  the  beatific  realms  above, 
Where  angels  dwell,  and  every  thought  is  love  ? 


THE    CRUCIFIXION.  229 

Will  he  not  dash  the  cup  from  him  away? 
Nor  suffer  longer  to  be  bound  in  clay? 
No  ;  deep  must  drink,  the  bitter  dregs  must  drain 
Ere  he  again  his  father's  throne  regains. 

A  crown  of  thorns  be  bound  about  the  brow. 
Of  him,  whose  power  might  crush  the  world 

e'en  now; 

A  kiss  betray,  humanity  must  die 
And  rise  again  ere  he  ascends  on  high. 

His  hour  has  come;  on  sad  Golgotha's  height 
In  shame  the  sun  withdraws  its  cheerful  light, 
While  from  their  graves  the  ancient  dead  arise, 
And  nature  quakes,  for  lo  !  her  Author  dies. 

Firm   rocks   are   rent,  and  from  their  stations 

hurled ; 
Bright  ligntnings  flash,  and  thunders   shake  the 

world ; 

The  Saviour  hangs,  and  in  his  pangs  he  cries  : 
"Forgive  them,  Father  !"  bows  his  head  and  dies. 


230  POEMS. 

Exult,  thou  mortal  terror,  gaping  womb 
Of  earth,  for  ne'er  again  in  thee,  oh,  tomb ! 
Shall  be  imirned  so  holy  dust;  for  know 
A  God  dwelt  in  that  form  while  here   below. 

Nor  shall  blood-crested  worms  feed  on  such  fare, 
Or  sacred  mould   turn  from    the    ploughman's 

share ; 

Death,  not  corruption,  on  that  form  may  rest ; 
And  death  hath  lost  its  power  thus  being  blest. 

Ascended  now  and  ta'en  the  seat  above, 
No  more  on  earth  to  agonize  ;    in  love 
The  Saviour  pleads,  and  pointing    to  his  side, 
Reminds  the  Father  how  he  bled  and  died; 

And  for  his  sake  beseeches  God  to  spare 
The  wayward  ones,  whose  sins  he  came  to  bear ; 
Weeps  when  he  sees  the  hardened  sinner  die, 
Who  will  not  turn  to  him  a  prayerful  eye. 


THE   CRUCIFIXION.  231 

Sees  him  refuse  the  speaking  blood,  which  saith, 
"  Mine  is  the  power  to  save  from  second  death ;" 
'T  is  this  that  tears  anew  the  wounded  flesh, 
And  daily  spills  his  precious  blood  afresh. 

Shall  I  be  one,  anew  to  crucify, 

By  scorning  Him    who    came    from  heaven  to 

die? 

No !  let  me  yield  to  him  that  better  part, 
A  contrite  spirit  and  a  broken  heart. 


232 


PLUTO     AND     PROSERPINE. 


THE  heathen  writers  love  to  tell 

How  Jove,  their  chief  god,  used  to  dwell 

On  mount  Olympus'  giddy  height, 

And  there  ruled  men,  with  supreme  right. 

Nor  men  alone,  each  lesser  god 
Obeyed  his  fiat  and  his  nod; 
King  Neptune,  Mars,  and  old  Pluto, 
Who  reigned  in  Hades,  down  below. 


PLUTO   AND    PROSERPINE.  233 

Mars  was  his  son  and  should  obey ; 
And  so  was  Phoebus,  god  of  day; 
But  Neptune,  who  o'er  waters   swayed, 
His  brother  loved,  and  so  obeyed. 

Old  Pluto,  though  to  Saturn  born, 
Who  helped  to  kick  that  god  forlorn 
From  heaven  to  earth,  obeyed  Jove's  sway, 
Because  he  seldom  crossed  his  way. 

For  Jove,  with  eagles  at  command, 
Could  nothing  want  in  Pluto's  land; 
And  it  was  seldom  Pluto  came 
From  out  the  sulphurous  smell  of  flame. 

And  when  he  came  to  ask  of  Jove 
Some  gift,  the  goddesses  all  strove 
That  he  might  have  his  heart's  desire ; 
Nor  longer  with  his  presence  tire. 


234  POEMS. 

For  he  was  horrid  to  behold; 
And  dead  men  were  by  him  controlled. 
The  girls,  of  course,  of  him  were   shy; 
Before  they  'd  marry  him  they  'd  die. 

It  chanced  that  Pluto  fell  in  love, 
So  straightway  to  the  throne  above 
Of  Jove  he  went,  and  being  there, 
He  sought  Miss  Proserpine,  the  fair. 

Jove  told  old  Pluto  not  to  fret, 
Or  hope  the  maiden  e'er  to  get, 
Ne'er  would  her  mother  let  her  go, 
To  Orcus'  shade,  that  realm  of  woe. 

But  Jove,  persuaded,  by  and  by, 
Said,  Pluto,  if  by  being  sly 
You'll  steal  the  girl,  why  very  well, 
Wed  her  and  make  her  queen  of  h — 11. 


PLUTO   AND   PROSEBPINE. 

One  day  as  Pluto  took  a  ride, 
By  Enna's  forest  fair  and  wide, 
He  saw  the  maiden  gathering  flowers, 
Among  the  glens  and  dewy  bowers. 

He  quickly  seized  her,  though  she  cried, 
And  placed  her  safely  by  his  side, 
Then  through  a  cavern  dark  and  wild, 
He  bore  the  goddess  Ceres'  child. 


235 


MORAL. 


Now  all  you  girls  that  flirt  about, 
Mind  you,  old  Pluto's  on  the  scout; 
If  you  coquette  at  such  a  rate, 
You  may  be  driven  to  his  gate. 


236 


VANITY    AND     CHANGE 


THE  gilded  arrow 

On  the  village  steeple. 
That 's  always  turning 

As  the  breezes  blow, 
An  emblem  fit  of 

Parson  and  of  people, 
Is  all  vain  (vane)  show. 


VANITY    AND    CHANGE.  237 

And  very  vainly, 

The  most  holy  liver, 
That  prays  or  praises 

Lives,  'tis  very  plain, 
Since  flows  the  blood, 

Which  is  the  great  life  giver, 
Sometimes  in  vein  (vain.) 

And  men  in  dying, 

As  they  cross  the  river, 
Are  always  whiter 

Than  they  were  before ; 
More  lie  (lye)  than  die,  (dye)  and 

Often  is  the  liver 
Sound  as  of  yore ; 

Unless  they  die  of 

Some  disease  hepatic, 
An  over  boiling 

Of  the  «  boiling  bile," 


238  POEMS. 

The  liver  then  is 

"  Biled"  and  that  emphatic, 
Though  raw  the  while. 

The  farmer  even, 

Often  though  appearing 

A  stable  man,  is 
Very  fond  of  turns, 

He  turns  the  furrow, 

From  his  course  not  veering', 

Thus  change  he  earns. 

The  greatest  changers 
In  the  whole  creation, 

Are  those  who  take  the 
Change  for  what  we  buy; 

Unless  it  is  the 

Worm,  by  strange  mutation, 

Changed  to  a  fly. 


VANITY    AND    CHANGE.  239 

There  is  a  change  to 

Fiddlers  more  annoying, 
Than  even  change  of 

Flatting  A  to  G  — 
Those  bits  of  silver, 

Brassy  by  alloying, 
That  count  but  three. 


FINIS. 


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